


And Foxes will Lie

by MeikoAtsushi



Series: And Crows will Cry [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Kidnapping, Lots of shit happens, M/M, Mystery, Part 1 of And Crows will Cry universe, Pining, there will be no specific warnings for the sake of the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 86,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27744634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeikoAtsushi/pseuds/MeikoAtsushi
Summary: “Sakusa Kiyoomi,” Grunts Sakusa. He still hasn’t shaken Atsumu’s hand. Someone sniggers from his back, and Atsumu doesn’t need to turn around to recognize that it’s Osamu. Well, fine. He started with the whole being an asshole thing, now he has an excuse. He relents and lets his hand drop.Or:Atsumu already has a lot on his plate, like killing people, beating up people, the same ol' drill. The last thing he needs is to be partnered with a germaphobe asshole who refuses to shake his hand. If he wasn't that hot even with his mask on, Atsumu would've shot him ages ago.Fucking Sakusa Kiyoomi.
Relationships: Background relationships - Relationship, Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Series: And Crows will Cry [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029528
Comments: 498
Kudos: 812
Collections: Inarizaki Serotonin Rush





	1. Miya Atsumu

**Author's Note:**

> So... uh. This is technically a prequel to a fic that I've been thinking about writing for months, but didn't know how to begin. Then, of course, I had to be introduced to SakuAtsu, and this disaster happened. I blame my pointless creativity. I can't promise regular updates because it's not break yet, but I'll try to update at least once a week. 
> 
> Also, as said in the tags, there will be mentions in the future about Fugou Keiji: Balance Unlimited characters in the future, but they are not crucial characters in this fic. It will not affect your understanding of the story whether you have watched the anime or not. That being said, I hope you enjoy this first chapter!
> 
> Yakuza terms:  
> Kumicho - the boss  
> Wakagashira/Shateigashira - superiors, second-in-command (more specific than that, but will not go into detail in this fic)  
> dogs - another term for the police

He sucks in a deep breath – the gun feels warm in his calloused hand.

Pressing a button for a shorthand contact, he fumbles for a coke-flavored lollipop in his pocket and unwraps the plastic with one hand, waiting. The person picks up after four rings. “ _Atsumu?”_

“Work’s done, Kita-san.” Atsumu glances down at the body. One shot through the temple, clean and precise. He’s dead. “Got the man.”

“ _Excellent. Can ya identify ‘im?”_

The lollipop rolls around on his tongue. “Nah, no clue. Not a familiar face, no tattoo, nothin’. Seems like yer right, though – their methods are unruly. Nobody from the west does shit like this – ya think it’s the east? Karasuno… or Fukurodani?”

“ _Who knows, we can’t jump to conclusions without solid evidence. Intel has informed me that similar incidents have been occurin’ in the east. Might be someone else entirely. Anyway, good work, Atsumu. Come home and rest.”_

“Yessir,” Atsumu tosses the empty gun into the rubbish can beside him and walks away from the scene. It would take the police hours before they notice, with where they were. When he’s out of the alley and onto the main roads, pedestrians milling about thoughtlessly, he spots his brother leaning against his sports car with an alighted cigarette between his lips. Atsumu marches up to him, pulls the damn thing out of his mouth, and chucks it to the concrete.

“The fuck, Tsumu, that was new.”

“That crap kills yer lungs, you dipshit.”

“I need somethin’ to deal with yer idiocy.” Miya Osamu doesn’t reach for a fresh cigarette though, as he climbs into the driver’s seat. Atsumu hops in as well. “How’d it go?”

“Wouldn’t be here if it went to shit, right?” His stomach churns a little at the memory. “They’re fuckin’ nasty, Samu. Thought I’d seen the worst years ago in this industry.”

Osamu snorts, but his expression lacks humor. “We’re not the worst, that’s why. What’d you see?”

“They used the drug to mess her up.” He’s monotonous while he says it, but he feels like hurling. Sympathetic, Osamu swerves to the side and stomps on the brakes. “She killed herself. Was dead when I got there. Guy said somethin’ about losin’ a product. Killed him after that – didn’t want to hear much.”

“Nobody in the west does that,” Osamu’s words mirror Atsumu’s from ten minutes ago, on the phone with Kita. “Shiratorizawa is too traditional, and Nohebi guys can be jerks but they have a conscience. Is it the east?” He pumps the gas again once he can tell Atsumu is calm. The latter shakes his head.

“I dunno. Kita-san doesn’t think- well, he doesn’t know either. But,” But, Atsumu wants it to be someone from the east. He thinks of the familiar faces – Tendou, Ushijima, Daishou. They can’t be behind this. “Fuck. I’m just tired of this crap. If it wasn’t Kita-san’s orders, I would’ve backed off.”

Osamu doesn’t look at him. “Ya think there’s a reason why he’s specifically askin’ you to deal with it? Surely the Kumicho has to know.” Atsumu ponders about that for a couple grueling seconds. Does the Kumicho know that Kita is ordering Atsumu to kill random drug dealers off the streets? It’s Kita – Kita, the most righteous man Atsumu knows, as righteous as one can be while being a yakuza. Eventually, he deactivates his brain.

“Doesn’t matter. I swore my allegiance to Kita-san, not Inarizaki.”

His twin nods at that. That’s right – their loyalty lies with Kita, not the organization. Their membership had nothing to do with it. “By the way, I think they’re sendin’ a couple people up this noon. I don’t know the details, but Rin said we’re expected to team with new guys.”

“New guys? Seriously? We can handle ourselves.” He despises worthless, useless underlings. It’d be a miracle if none of them turned out to be hindrances to their missions. Atsumu had plenty to grapple with, including the side jobs Kita was giving for the past three months. “Where are they from?”

“Branch families. Some from Ohgiminami, a handful from Kamomedai, and one from Itachiyama.”

He groans in exasperation at the names. “Ohgiminami, they’re fuckin’ fragile asses. Kamomedai,” Actually he’s heard some promising things about one of them. Hoshi… something. According to the stories, he was terrifying. Perhaps Atsumu will get to find out. “And Itachiyama? Who the hell are they?”

Osamu squints at him in disbelief. “And this why yer the stupid one, Tsumu.” ‘ _Fuck you, Samu.’_ “They’re a distant branch family from sixty years ago, situated in the north. They’re low in numbers, but Kita-san noted that they do neat work, so must be true. Only one of ‘em is comin’, though.”

“Must be confident or somethin’.” A yawn, “Wake me up when we’re there. Stayed up all night to kill that bastard.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He drifts off.

_Miya Osamu, you motherfucker._

Osamu did not wake him up.

Instead, he left Atsumu sweating in the car, a pitiful miniature electric fan hanging by the window, as if that’d suffice. At least they’re in the Inarizaki parking lot, so no sunlight is present to ruin his skin. He will murder Osamu, though (he will not, but he will scream about it in his ear). “Shit,” His shoulder aches from pushing it against the seat too long. He blearily turns on his phone again, and there’s a message from Aran.

_‘We have meeting at 4. It’s important, so get your ass here on time.’_

Four? The time – _4:28._

Screw it, he will obliterate Miya Osamu and make sure he’s thrown to hell, not heaven. Definitely not heaven.

Feet on fire, he sprints to the main building. Nobody’s in the lobby, which is expected, but has literally nobody thought of searching for him? _They’re all shits, Jesus._ He marches through the corridors, knocking his shoes off when he reaches the tatami floors. A bunch of loafers are scattered across the carpet. Adjusting his tie and hoping it’s not too obvious that he woke up three minutes ago, he drags open the bamboo door.

“-he’s typically not punctual anyway, so- oh, there he is.”

There are ton of people sitting cross-legged in the room, Kumicho Kurosu in his usual spot. Attention is on him, and Atsumu doesn’t like it. He can see Osamu biting back a laugh in the corner and suppresses the urge to shout his brother’s name in front of at least fifty strangers. “Atsumu, yer late. Though that’s old news.” His Kumicho reprimands, but he’s not angry.

“Sorry, was distracted.” Atsumu drops to the nearest vacant area by the entrance. Osamu is beside Suna. _That absolute snake._

“Anyway, as I was saying…” Kurosu goes on, wherever he was. “This force is a threat to the west. We don’t want the dogs to be involved – these are yakuza matters, not the police. They’re crawling into yakuza territory. We’re going to investigate, and we’ll do it in pairs. They move individually – as a pair, you’d have a higher chance of certain victory. Kill ‘em once you get somethin’. Kill ‘em if you get nothin’. That’s how Inarizaki moves.”

A mumble of acknowledgement echoes.

“Report to Kita or Ojiro once you have info. It’s the emotionless one and the non-Japanese lookin’ one, my left and right.” Kita doesn’t even stir, and Aran offers a friendly smile. Atsumu knows that he’s anything but friendly once you incur his wrath. “Dismissed. Inarizaki and Itachiyama, stay.”

People file out of the room one by one. Itachiyama – Atsumu perks up. The branch that only sent one dude. Where was he? _Before that, actually,_ “Samu, ya fuckin’ motherfucker, piece of shit, why didn’t cha wake me up, I wouldn’t have been fuckin’ late if you had the common sense to give yer brother a call for once –“

“I already told ya we had a conference this afternoon, yer fault for not takin’ care of yer sleep schedule. Also, wipe the drool on yer chin, it’s disgusting.” Atsumu furiously rubs his chin. Curse his brother, there’s no way their gene pool is identical. He props himself next to Osamu anyway, ignoring the red bruise on his brother’s neck that is – a hickey, yes. He stares at Suna, who stares back, then smirks. _God, I did not have to know._ Either Osamu doesn’t care or isn’t aware yet. “So that’s the guy from Itachiyama. He looks like he wants to die.”

Atsumu follows Osamu’s gaze, and he’s accurate – dread and disdain radiate from the man’s hunched form. He’s wearing the sharpest suit Atsumu has seen in a while, all black – black leather gloves, black button-down, black tie, black slacks, and a black surgical mask. Two moles that vertically line up on his forehead and his jaded eyes is all Atsumu can see. _Ah, this one’s a creep. A definite creep._

“Sakusa, ya actually hafta sit with us, just sayin’.” Kurosu chuckles, amused. _Sakusa,_ so that’s his name. Sakusa, obviously reluctant, inches closer by a foot. He’s still considerably distanced. “Well, that’s fine – we’re keepin’ ya behind ‘cause Atsumu was late, anyway.”

“I had a good reason for that.” Argues Atsumu, not that he’s going to throw his brother under the bus when he was clearly having a nice time with Suna. Does he want to know what kind of relationship they have? “Wait, what do I hafta to do with this?”

“Well, yer the only one without a pair in Inarizaki.”

Atsumu gapes. He snaps to Osamu, who shrugs innocently, sticking close to Suna. “Samu, ya fuckin’ traitor.”

“It was Kita-san’s idea, not mine. I’ll clarify that.”

He swivels to Kita, and the man’s brow quirks slightly, as if daring Atsumu to utter the same words he had to his twin. He grits his teeth and clenches his knees with both hands. “Fine. Only ‘cause it’s Kita-san.”

“Anyway,” Kurosu moves on, “Sakusa, this is Miya Atsumu. He’s… well, he’s not our most pleasant, but he’s one of our finest. He’ll be difficult to work with, but you’ll get work done.” Miya takes a huge step towards Sakusa and grins crookedly.

“Miya Atsumu.” His extends his hand. Sakusa blinks at it. His hand hovers in the air. _Does this lad not know the concept of a handshake or what?_

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.” Grunts Sakusa. He still hasn’t shaken Atsumu’s hand. Someone sniggers from his back, and Atsumu doesn’t need to turn around to recognize that it’s Osamu. _Well, fine. He started with the whole being an asshole thing, now I have an excuse._ He relents and lets his hand drop.

“Sakusa will be staying with us until we catch the rats. He’s Itachiyama’s best, so consider yerself in luck, Atsumu. Show ‘im around town tomorrow.”

 _Itachiyama’s best? Yeah, right._ “Great. Lookin’ forward to it.”

They’re dismissed, but Kita gestures at Atsumu and guides him to his office. Which is perfect, because Atsumu has a gigaton and much more to say. He starts with, “I hate ‘im, Kita-san, what did I do to piss ya off?”

Kita’s lips curve short of a smile, but that’s what Kita’s smile looks like. The shateigashira grabs a pistol from his wall instead and polishes it with a handkerchief as he speaks. “Take a seat, Atsumu. Ya haven’t done anything. You’ve been doin’ good, I always told you that.” Atsumu is on the verge of demanding ‘then why,’ but he’s more patient than that. Kita has taught him to be more patient. “It’s irrational – but I do not have a good feeling about this.”

“This?”

“Everything. The increased distribution of that unidentified drug, this organization – something’s off. There is an association I’m missin’.” Kita places the pistol on his desk. “Don’t ya see it, Atsumu? Ya and I’ve been ‘round here for the last twenty years, although not in Inarizaki. We spent at least ten each _in_ Inarizaki. If there’s a hidden organization distributin’ shady drugs and sellin’ people, we would’ve known. We didn’t, though, and they’re only showin’ now.”

Atsumu allows a second for the information to sink in. “So,” His tongue grazes his canine tooth. “Yer thinkin’ there’s someone among us.”

“Not restricted to Inarizaki, but among the branch families, there are more than sufficient possibilities. They are branch families ‘cause they are weaker, but not all of ‘em are placated with that.” Kita is dispassionate as always. “If they want to create a ruckus, this is their chance – where we willingly invite ‘em into our den. Most of ‘em are probably harmless. Hoshiumi and Sakusa, however…” _Hoshiumi,_ that must be the one Atsumu has heard of from Kamomedai. “They’re dangerous. It’s natural that each family would send their finest, which is why they’re formidable threats. Aran has an eye on Hoshiumi. And for Sakusa…”

He melts into the chair a little. “That’s why ya paired me with ‘im. Ya wanted me to keep him in place.”

“It doesn’t mean that he is an enemy. I just want you to be watchful and report if there is anything to report.”

“Gotcha, gotcha.”

“The organization is probably the same group with the drugs. I’ll tell ya once I gather more information. For the meantime, watch Sakusa.”

“Yessir,” He rises from the chair. Before he departs from the office, he tilts his head at Kita. “Kita-san, I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why is it me, not Osamu?”

It could’ve been Osamu. He knew why Kita wasn’t permitting them to complete these jobs together – they’d stand out. Together, the Miya twins could not be discreet, since that was simply how they were. But Osamu was the, well, the one who was less of a disaster than Atsumu. Not that Atsumu would ever admit that aloud. He was also the one who was more suited for killing.

Kita hums. “Say, Atsumu. Who would ya die for?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Osamu. And you, but Osamu comes first.”

“That’s why.”

“What?”

“Not many people can answer that immediately.” Kita smiles. “It says somethin’ about the person.”

Atsumu doesn’t really understand, but he leaves anyway. If that’s what Kita says, then it must be valid.

He distinctly remembers when Kita gave him the first man. No name, no specific description – _he’ll be there with drugs, in business. Kill ‘im._ And Atsumu did. He retrieved the drug, and Kita sampled it and shipped it to some acquaintance he had in Shiratorizawa. The drug came back unidentified – it was nothing they had in their dataset or lab. It was recently developed, and while the physical effects weren’t as visible, the mental consequences seemed dire. Atsumu winces when he recalls the woman who screeched at Atsumu at his fourth, maybe fifth, job, begging him to kill her. He didn’t, but she did it anyway, snatching the gun from him and shooting herself in the chest multiple times before collapsing to the ground, dead.

It couldn’t be Inarizaki. _It can’t be,_ Atsumu groans. There’s nobody that fucked up here. He knew them for ten years. Oomimi had a scary face but he had a pet squirrel at home named Mochi. Ginjima was hotheaded but Atsumu saw him climb a tree to retrieve a balloon for kids in the playground. Suna was, well – Osamu liked him, so that meant something. He saw Kosaku feed the neighborhood cats two days ago. Riseki was always nervous, but he wasn’t bad. Akagi was one of the most cheerful yakuza Atsumu met. So, by his sound logic, it can’t be Inarizaki.

And yet – and yet.

 _Drugs are outlawed in Inarizaki anyway,_ Atsumu tries to assure himself. Sure, he swore his allegiance to Kita the day he joined the foxes. His loyalty was not with the family. That didn’t mean he was heartless; ten years is a long ass time.

“Yer thinkin’,” Osamu comments dryly, standing outside Kita’s office. “Don’t waste yer brain cells, Tsumu, ya only have like three to begin with.”

“Fuck you, Samu.” Pause. “Didja forget to call me ‘cause ya were fuckin’ Sunarin this afternoon?”

His brother rolls his eyes. “I didn’t forget. The second part is true, though.”

“Makes it even worse, you asshole. Wait for the day till ya mess up yer sleep schedule and I lock you alone in the car with a tiny ass fan.”

“Didja miss the fuckin’ part? Gotta find someone to get laid first, Tsumu.” Osamu sneers, “What about the Sakusa that didn’t shake yer hand? Maybe he’s willing to shake yer dick, Tsumu, ya never know. The world’s a messed up place.”

“Again, fuck you, Samu.”

When he slips out of the main building, parting ways with Osamu, there is none other than Sakusa Kiyoomi himself, still wearing his mask, on his phone as he loitered around in the parking lot. It’s an odd sight, how he walks in circles as he types with his thumb. Suddenly, he lifts his chin, and their eyes lock together. Atsumu’s primal instinct is to wave, because he waves at everyone and anyone, but then he remembers how Sakusa rejected his handshake and decides against it. He’s a petty person, and he doesn’t care that he is.

He breaks the staring first and goes straight for his car parked at the edge – but he doesn’t make much progress as Sakusa blocks his path. “Hey, Sakusa-kun.” Three seconds. Five seconds. Seven seconds, “Ya need somethin’? I gotta watch my favorite soap opera; I’d appreciate it if ya move.”

“What’s your number?”

Atsumu goes static, but it’s momentary. “Is this how ya flirt? Push-and-pull, that kinda shit?”

Sakusa’s face goes flat, although he can only see half of it. He doesn’t respond; instead, he takes out a notepad from his pocket and a pen from the other. He scribbles briefly and rips out the page, handing it to Atsumu. There’s a number written on it, the digits angled almost robotically that Atsumu would’ve believed it if someone told him that this was printed. “That’s my number. I’ll text you.” He then stalks away, just like that.

“Anyone ever tell ya that yer a real jerk, Sakusa-kun?”

Sakusa flicks at him. “They’re usually dead before they can.”

“Usually,” Atsumu leers, “gotcha.”

The man is out of the parking lot in his sleek Audi within seconds. Atsumu saves the number, tears the paper into pieces, dramatically hurls them to the ground, and clucks his tongue as he scowls at his palm.

_What a jerk._


	2. Sakusa Kiyoomi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I will update once a week  
> Also me: updates 24 hrs later
> 
> Irregular updates yall xD - thanks for the subscriptions, comments, kudos, and views just on the first chapter! The first couple of chapters are mostly world building and character introductions, so I hope you can bear through them.

Atsumu never liked the east.

Which, yes, was biased of him, because he never lived in the east in his life, ever. He was born in Hyogo with Osamu, grew up in a relatively happy family with his parents, until his father did business with the wrong guy and got himself shot in the middle of the street after they moved to west Tokyo. The twins were twelve then; too young to comprehend the complex muddle their father was involved in, but old enough to understand that they were in trouble. Their mother, who was never willful or resilient, was unable to withstand the fear of death, which led to her disappearance one morning. Neither of the twins blamed her – at least she left everything behind, including money.

They lived off their family savings for months, until it eventually evaporated into dust. It was a fifteen-year-old Kita who punched Atsumu in the face when he attempted to rob a bank at the age of fourteen without his brother. He was pretty dumb then, but Osamu had come down with malnutrition and they were sleeping on newspapers. Fatigue made people dumb.

It was a fifteen-year-old Kita who took in the twins – they were a mere year younger than him – and announced that he was taking responsibility of them in front of Inarizaki’s Kumicho. The Kumicho was not Kurosu then, but a wrinkly old geezer who Atsumu abhorred. At the time, the twins had no idea why Kita was a yakuza as a teenager, but it didn’t matter. They listened with a mixture of horror and awe as the Kumicho made Kita vow to cut off his fingers lest the twins cause unnecessary chaos for the family – Kita complied.

They didn’t attend school, but Kita did, and when Kita was back, he took out their textbooks wordlessly and taught them basic math equations, English, chemistry, and whatever he covered in school. More than half of it entered Atsumu’s ears and flew out through the other, but he liked Kita. They both liked Kita. So, they did the math, memorized the weird English vocab, and struggled to learn the periodic table.

And then, when they turned eighteen, Kita nineteen, the Kumicho made them join in a brawl against a group in the east. It was the twins and some other guys from Inarizaki; Kita was ordered to stay. Atsumu wasn’t even certain what they were fighting about; he was told to fight, so he fought.

Then, some stupid trash concluded that it was a magnificent idea to defy the set strategy and charge ahead. They won, but Osamu almost lost a leg and two were gone, along with the stupid trash.

When they returned home, Kita was called into the Kumicho’s office and did not appear for a week.

And then he was out with all fingers, but not quite breathing.

Atsumu doesn’t remember much – only that he nearly strangled the Kumicho, Aran was the one to knock him out, and then three weeks later, the Kumicho had passed from a heart attack.

The east was tagged with repugnant memories. It shouldn’t surprise Atsumu that Sakusa is from east Tokyo, as it reads on his profile – which Atsumu received from Suna. “You could just ask him,” he pointed out. When Atsumu answered that he was an asshole, Suna laughed, “Just like you.”

There’s not anything valuable on his profile – only his birthday, birthplace, affiliation, and rank. He doesn’t need that. Despite being a branch family of Inarizaki, there’s so little about Itachiyama, and something about it puts Atsumu at unease.

_Speaking of the asshole._

His phone pings in tune – there’s a message from Sakusa.

_‘Asshole: I’m in front of your condo.’_

“What, _now_?” Atsumu exclaims, and Osamu, who is lounging on the couch, frowns at him. “Didn’t even brush my teeth, shit.”

“It’s eleven, Tsumu, that’s probably yer fault.”

“ _Agh_ ,” He dashes to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, grabs a dress shirt and slacks from his wardrobe, tucks a gun into his holster, and, “What am I today?”

Osamu scrunches his nose distastefully. “A negative two.”

“That’s like a nine in yer definition. Good enough.”

“This is why Kita gave up on teaching you algebra, Tsumu, you can’t even count.”

“Be back by eight.”

True to his word, there is that same Audi from yesterday by the gate of his condo. Sakusa is in the driver’s seat, and before Atsumu even opens the door, the windows slide downward and Sakusa’s gloved hand drops a bottle into Atsumu’s palms. It’s seventy-percent ethanol hand sanitizer. “Are ya really tellin’ me to apply this?” But then past the window, he observes the interior of the car, the seats wrapped in antimicrobial copper sheets. “Okay, yer serious. Alright.” It would be hilarious if Sakusa didn’t have a gun by his waist. “So,” Once he does rub the gel over his hands, he’s inside. “Ya want a tour of the city or what?”

“Unlike you, I’m here to work.” Sakusa says matter-of-factly. “I’m expecting that you at least have a grasp on where to start.”

“I don’t, unfortunately.” That’s a lie – he does have some ideas, and Kita has messaged him updates the previous night. But those were his jobs, and his other job included watching Sakusa. “I’m afraid we gotta do it from scratch.”

“You’re absolutely useless.” Atsumu stiffens, irked. “Oh, did I verbalize my thoughts? I apologize.”

 _God, I hate him._ “All we really have so far is that for the past month, they’ve been targetin’ some of our members. Akagi was attacked in his apartment, and Oomimi was almost shot. There’s been unusual movement in our turf, and rumors of dealers hidin’ around. That’s all we got.”

Sakusa taps on the steering wheel. “That does basically nothing to narrow the motives. Well, fine.” The car lurches forward, “Is there anywhere you’d recommend for information?”

 _Information…_ ah. “Go straight – ya know the department store? Has a gigantic billboard and everythin’,” Sakusa nods, “I have someone there; he owes me, so he’ll give us a lead.”

The other man glances at the rearview mirror. “That’s Shiratorizawa’s turf.”

“Wow, ya know yer stuff, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa grips the wheel. “What?”

“Eyes on the road, eyes on the road.” _He’s ticked, he’s ticked._ “Ya know, ‘Sakusa-kun’ is too bland. Omi-kun’s more entertainin’, don’t ya think?”

“No. Why are we headed to Shiratorizawa?”

“It’s not like we’re enemies; we’re in an alliance, Omi-kun.”

“I know that. That doesn’t answer my question.”

“I have a friend there, ‘kay? He’s an informant of Shiratorizawa, and I saved his ass when we partnered up for a joint assignment when our Kumichos collaborated. Satisfied?” Sakusa doesn’t reply. Of course he doesn’t. “It’s fine, he’s trustworthy. Too uptight and salty, but he’s brilliant at what he does.”

“I don’t know, Miya. Your judgment seems clouded.”

Atsumu’s temperament burns into ashes. He’s done. He’s officially done. “Ya know, if this is ‘cause I opted for a handshake yesterday rather than, I dunno, a fuckin’ fist bump, then yer bein’ a real shithead.”

“Not quite. I simply happen to dislike people like you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Pompous brats.” Sakusa replies tersely, “We’re here. Get out.”

 _Pompous brat? Last time I checked, this asshole is six months younger than me._ Atsumu grumbles and slams the door as he steps out of the vehicle. Hell to expensive cars. He grinds his teeth and guides them to Shiratorizawa’s base, which is located a few blocks from the department store. There are guards at the entrance, and Atsumu waves at them amiably; they bow and let them in.

The main hall of Shiratorizawa is pristine and superfluously majestic as always, with their marble tiles and eagle statues. Atsumu found it extra years ago, and he finds them extra today. All Shiratorizawa members had this overflowing pride about being an eagle, which Atsumu couldn’t fathom but didn’t object to. There’s a familiar boy with a bowl-cut kicking a volleyball around by the indoor garden (again, extra) and Atsumu approaches him. “Goshiki, long time no see.”

“Oh, Atsumu-san!” Goshiki Tsutomu, the most enthusiastic and gullible kid Atsumu knows, despite being regarded as the next Kumicho candidate after Ushijima, grins at him. “What brings you here? And you’re not with Osamu-san today, that’s rare.”

Atsumu flaps his hand airily. “Nothin’ important. Do ya know where Kenjirou is?”

“Shirabu-san should be in the study on the third floor.”

“Alright, thanks. I’ll see ya around, future Kumicho.”

Goshiki brightens with the power of another five suns. Sakusa flinches beside Atsumu. “Take care, Atsumu-san!”

Once out of earshot, Atsumu says, “He’s Goshiki Tsutomu, one of Shiratorizawa’s core members. Although he’s like that, he’s reliable on the field.” Sakusa shrugs, like he could care less. He probably does. They board the elevator and land on the third floor; Atsumu knows the base like his backyard, as well as Shirabu’s favorite study. He doesn’t stop to knock and invites themselves right in, where Shirabu is reading on a desk, surrounded by stacks of books and his laptop.

“Kenjirou,” That has the man frowning, puzzled. He instantly glowers when he recognizes Atsumu. “Ya love me today too, I see it.”

Shirabu Kenjirou is a pretty man. He’s a pretty man with clipped bangs, almond eyes, and stinging remarks. He also is dexterous with knives, and Atsumu prefers to keep this conversation peaceful. “What do you need, Atsumu-san?”

“Ya remember how I saved ya like Prince Charming when that sleazy geezer was about to chop yer leg off?”

“Of course. You remind me every week on Sundays, texting me a histrionic paragraph recounting the event.”

“I do. So, why don’t ya tell me somethin’ and I’ll call it even? No more paragraphs on Sundays.”

Shirabu’s jaw descends a little. Then, “I’m so desperate at this point that I’d hack the Japanese government’s intel for you.”

“Romantic. That’d be cool, but that’s not what I need.” He notices how Shirabu is warily scanning Sakusa. “Oh, he’s Sakusa Kiyoomi from Itachiyama – our branch family. We’re partners. Anyway, do ya happen to know what’s going on nowadays? Just give me everythin’.”

“Everything?” Shirabu affirmed, “Hacking the government intel system might be easier. Be more specific.”

“Drugs, kidnapping, murder, along those lines.”

The informant opens his laptop, and his fingers dance over the keyboard, rapid-fire and efficient. “I can’t say there’s been a notable change regarding drug rings around here. They’re around, and they’re what they are. Kidnapping… well, we have been observing a steady increase in missing persons in the city. In Inarizaki… thirty-four this month. A few murder incidents, but over eighty-percent of those are doings of the yakuza, based on methods and all.”

“Thirty-four? That many?” How did he not realize?

“It’s not too startling once you identify them, actually. Over ninety percent of them are women, and the rest are children. They’re low-income and don’t have many social connections. Prostitutes, bar waitresses, cashiers… orphans. Some aren’t even registered. Intentional targeting, it seems, where the police wouldn’t notice fast, or at least fast enough. We can’t be too certain, though.”

Atsumu runs his fingers through his hair. “Give me some locations. I guess we’ll track ‘em down.”

“On it.”

Sakusa, who has been silent during their whole exchange, shifts. “Are you able to find images of where they were last witnessed?”

“Ah, yeah. I’ll try. Five minutes.”

Five minutes later, Atsumu has thirty-four resident locations and blurry security camera footages in his chat with Shirabu. “I couldn’t dig up everything. I assume some dates aren’t the days they actually vanished, and some were most likely abducted or murdered in areas where cameras weren’t filming. You should have at least fifteen, though.” He does; there are seventeen.

“Thanks, Kenjirou. Yer Sundays are free of me now. Don’t be too depressed about it!”

Shirabu beams – _beams_. Atsumu was together with Shirabu for six months, and Shirabu had never smiled once, sans that one time he snickered at Atsumu for tripping into the sewers. It’s creepy. “Are you kidding? I’ve never been this content since October 2018.”

“’kay Kenjirou, live a little.”

When they’re in the car again, Sakusa comments, “How many people are being tormented by your paragraphs every Sunday?”

“I dunno, I automated them and just add names as I go. Stopped counting after twenty-eight.”

“I’m feeling pity for strangers.”

“Jealous?”

“Do you even speak Japanese?”

Atsumu rolls his eyes. “Thirty-four is impossible. Let’s just select one place per region. That’d be around,” _One, two, three, four…_ “Seven. We’ll visit all the locations in the footages though, ‘cause those are handy. Ya think yer delicate ass can keep up?”

Sakusa doesn’t even spare him a glance. “I’m driving the car, Miya.”

“He’s a fuckin’ scrub.”

Atsumu slumps onto the couch, a damp towel around his neck, out from the shower. Osamu puts a bowl of rice topped with salmon sashimi and soy sauce, as well as wasabi garnish and onion slices. The older twin was a catastrophe in the kitchen, so Osamu was the one who had to cook. His brother tosses him a spoon, “Sakusa? He’s Itachiyama’s best, and the Kumicho complimented ‘im. Can’t be a total scrub.”

Atsumu devours the salmon don hungrily. “He’s not a _scrub_ , but he’s a scrub.”

Osamu makes an acknowledging noise, “Ya mean, he’s objectively productive and skilled, but gets on yer nerves.”

“He covers his car in this anti-bacterial sheets, has me use that god-stinky hand sanitizer before I ride the car, and when I ask ‘im why can’t we just ride my car, he goes all, ‘ _Who knows what you might’ve done in that car, Miya.’”_ He enacts his best impression of Sakusa’s deadpan face and Tokyo accent. He’s terrible at it, and Osamu snorts on his wasabi and coughs. “I only fucked in that car thrice, Samu, _thrice_! And I clean afterward!”

“I mean, Tsumu,” His twin wipes his nose with a tissue, the spice from the wasabi reddening his nose. “He saw ya come in late with drool all over yer chin. I don’t blame ‘im. At least he’s good, just like they all say. What would you have done if he were a _scrub_ and a scrub?”

Atsumu puffs his cheeks, disgruntled. “Still would’ve done it, since Kita-san requested.”

It’s true: Sakusa Kiyoomi is good at what he does. Really good.

They explored two of the seven residents today – houses of Umihara Kanako and Iwano Tsue. Umihara was a prostitute who had quit her brothel – _Baracho,_ between Inarizaki and Nohebi territory _–_ two weeks ago. She didn’t live with anyone, as when they barged into her apartment, there was nothing but the stench of rotten food compost and dust. Sakusa inhaled a stuttered breath before going inside, skimmed the house for two minutes, and was out again.

_“There are no signs of struggle in the house or bloodstains. It’s unlikely that she was killed or kidnapped here. I don’t think she even slept here often – the futons are folded on her bed. Probably invited men or friends over for drinks but spent nights elsewhere. Baracho doesn’t provide meals or rooms for their employees, and according to her coworkers, she didn’t have many friends. Must be a client, then. We could see if there’s anything on the footages or acquire her client list. She must have some regulars.”_

Atsumu marveled, “ _Ya got that all in two minutes from lookin’ at the house?”_

Sakusa hurriedly sprayed sanitizer and more gel onto his hands before wearing his gloves again. “ _You have a pair of eyes and a brain for a purpose, Miya.”_

Iwano Tsue was a seventeen-year-old teenager who was kicked out of her orphanage a year ago, living with her boyfriend. Her boyfriend was a typical high school yankee, his hair spiked and bleached. When Atsumu kicked the door open, the guy barreled towards them with a baseball bat, and he swiftly shot the bat once.

“ _Listen,”_ sighed Atsumu, _“we’re busy people. Where’s yer chick?”_

The kid was trembling, petrified as he tumbled away from them. “ _I- I don’t –“_

 _“Iwano Tsue,”_ Sakusa interjected, “ _You were in hiding with her.”_

Atsumu blinked at his partner, bewildered at the statement – but the kid paled by another three gradients. Sakusa spoke monotonously, “ _That purse on the shelf is too costly for high schoolers to afford, unless they’re silver spoons, in which you aren’t. Your watch is from the real brand. Means you had some illicit trade deals, or you stole, whatever you did. You were in hiding with her, probably fought over something, causing her to flee. Then she never came back.”_

_“How did you –“_

_“We don’t have forever. Where is she?”_ Sakusa’s hand was on the butt of his gun, not out of the holster but revealed for the boy to see. Atsumu was already wielding his, but it did the trick.

“ _I- I don’t know! She was spending cash on some pills, it was making her crazy, told her to fuckin’ quit because she kept going out and we were wanted by the cops! She was in withdrawal or whatever, ‘cause she ran away with a bundle of cash like four days ago and- and she didn’t come back. Presumed she was arrested or shit, I dunno.”_

Sakusa exchanged looks with Atsumu. “ _Fine. Ah, don’t think about running your mouth. We know your name.”_

When they were in Sakusa’s Audi, Atsumu queried, “ _We do?”_

The other exhaled, distressed. _“Of course not.”_

So, yeah, he was good. Atsumu wasn’t _not_ observant and analytical, but he was more intuitive and instinctual when it came to his work. He was better in action – he left the strategizing and complicated matters to Kita and Osamu. It was why the twins were renowned in the industry; they committed no errors together. They were ostentatious in performance but perfect. Theoretically, Sakusa falls under the identical category along with Osamu and Kita. _Theoretically_.

“Well, Rin and I searched the east today.”

Atsumu almost spits out his salmon. “The _hell_ were ya thinkin’? Which turf?”

“Nekoma.”

 _The fuck._ “Yer outta yer minds, Samu.”

The split between the east and west was now history, and although Atsumu never absorbed the bitsy minor events and gazillion betrayals and murders in between, the gist was that there was dispute over territory and boundaries, the pact was breached, and the underworld of Tokyo had been divided ever since. In the west, there were Inarizaki, the foxes, Shiratorizawa, the eagles, and Nohebi, the snakes. In the east, there were Karasuno, the crows, Nekoma, the cats, Fukurodani, the owls, and Seijoh, the kings – although everyone in the west coined them as trash out of habit.

Nekoma’s security was the tightest of all seven, and intruding Nekoma lands could result in, worst case scenario, death.

“We weren’t caught so it’s fine.” Osamu pats his stomach in delight, “And if we were, they didn’t kill us, so maybe they’re kinda nice.”

“Don’t ya dare go there again,” Hisses Atsumu admonishingly, “Nekoma’s Kuroo is bad news.”

“Alright, alright. Ya got another job from Kita-san?”

( _“Please kill me, just kill me already, I wanna die, I wanna die, die, die, die, die –“)_

“Yeah.” Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah.”

Osamu rubs his back before clearing their bowls.

Atsumu fumbles through the stash of lollipops in the storage space of his car and sucks on the honey lemon flavored one. The sugary sweet taste drags him out of his midnight slumber. Three months of consecutive killing – vague description, hideout, shoot, repeat – is taking a toll on him, much more than he’d like. Atsumu doesn’t resent killing, but he doesn’t particularly reap much fun out of it either. He doesn’t like how inhaling gunpowder burns his throat, or the metallic stench of blood that attacks his nostrils right after. It’s arduous labor to wash out the crimson stains when they sully his few button-downs, too.

But he’s here because he has to. There was another man to shoot, until Kita could figure something out.

His cue is when a girl – _not another girl, for Chrissake –_ stumbles under the lamppost, towards someone Atsumu cannot see from this angle. Must be his target. He mutes his movements and follows the woman – she can’t be older than twenty-two, even with her makeup on. The expression of overwhelming anxiety and terror which paints her face makes Atsumu want to vomit his dinner on the pavement. He kneels on the ground when he registers murmurs from a couple meters away – two- no, three meters.

“… I can’t do this anymore, I keep seeing things- and, and I- you told me it’d feel amazing, you said, you _said_ …”

The man’s response is inaudible from where Atsumu is. The woman’s voice is so hoarse, as if she swallowed a bag of sand before talking.

“You gotta have something else, I can’t handle this anymore, I –“ A hitched gasp resounds throughout the vicinity and Atsumu rises. There’s the echo of heels scraping the concrete and a lower grunt of a man. It doesn’t take more than ten seconds from then – Atsumu’s finger is on the trigger, the silencer is attached, and the bullet is fired.

Headshot, forehead.

Atsumu boots the body with his foot – again, he doesn’t recognize the man. There’s no tattoo which suggests that he’s with a family or a foreign organization. Atsumu scavenges his belongings, but there’s nothing but a handkerchief soaked in what Atsumu guesses is a knock-out drug used on the woman. The rundown car that is in the corner does not have a plate, like the other guys. _Same pattern,_ Atsumu notes dully, and then flickers to the woman sprawled on the surface. Her makeup is smudged with streaks of tears, dark circles under her eyes and lips blue, almost no fat on her bones. He brings his fingers to her lips – _she’s breathing. Unconscious, then._

“Kita-san, I’m done.” The report is ordinary routine, and Kita promises that he’ll reward Atsumu with a present someday – “I want fatty tuna, Kita-san.”

_“That, I can do.”_

Before he’s out of the scene, Atsumu snatches a newspaper stacked atop the rubbish cans. He places one over the woman’s shivering form, because it’s the least he can do.

It’s the least he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a side note, the beginning of this fic takes place in November. Atsumu is 25, and Sakusa is 24.


	3. Nekoma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo!! Yes, I'm the author who is posting like crazy because I have finals in 2 weeks. 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos, comments, subscriptions, and views on the second chapter as well! I understand that the first few chapters of this fic can seem like there's so much happening (because it's true), but that's my fault for not being able to choose a favorite school to write about. I love all my babies what can you say uwu
> 
> One clarification - I don't know extreme specific details of yakuza dynamics. My writing is based off what I see from mangas, movies, animes, and partially Korean jopok gangs. So, if you see anything like, "what, that's not accurate portrayal," then you're probably right. Please treat fiction as fiction and gloss over my errors! 
> 
> Enjoyyy :D

Some mornings, Atsumu wakes up in cold sweat, pupils blown wide as he tugs at his sheets to breathe. His pulse stabilizes when he spots that hippo-shaped maroon patch on the ceiling, confirming that he’s in his room, at home. He’s accustomed to it, and so is Osamu; Atsumu only knows because he’s seen Osamu wake up on the couch once in the same manner. They didn’t discuss it because they didn’t have to. It was a regrettable consequence of their decisions, but it wasn’t like they ever had an alternative.

“ _What’d ya think we’d do if we weren’t yakuza?”_ Atsumu wondered once, maybe when they were two, three years in.

“ _I dunno. I like food, so maybe a chef.”_

_“A chef? You? Then I’d be, I dunno, the prime minister.”_

_“Yer dream is to bring Japan to ruins? Didn’t know, Tsumu.”_

Atsumu had no clue. He only lived one life, and it was that of a yakuza. All his companions his age were like him – Shirabu, Suna, Seguro, Kawanishi. In Kita’s generation, there were lawyers and such, but in the end they all defended the yakuza and were a part of them. As far as Atsumu knew, Shirabu actually hadn’t planned out to become a member of Shiratorizawa, but that’s what ultimately happened. ‘ _I didn’t care where I was, as long as I could assist Ushijima-san. That is all.’_ Atsumu accepted that explanation, because he was in Inarizaki for Kita, too. Perhaps the stories weren’t too diverse.

Naturally, on his fifth day with Sakusa, Atsumu becomes curious. Sakusa frankly didn’t seem the yakuza type. Atsumu could picture him in some law firm, like Semi from Shiratorizawa, but a full-fledged yakuza? He wouldn’t have believed it if he weren’t partnered with him.

During lunch – which is a pain in the ass because Sakusa only dined at specific restaurants around the city, where his personal hygiene standards could be satisfied – Atsumu leads into the topic, inquisitive. “So, Omi-kun, what’s Itachiyama like?”

Sakusa is disinfecting his chopsticks. “It’s normal.”

“Branch families aren’t my expertise, ya see,” Atsumu wades past Sakusa’s terse answer. “Kita-san’s been naggin’ at me, to educate myself. So, what do ya guys do?” It’s a bluff, but Atsumu’s a talented actor. That’s what he should’ve been – an actor. He has the face for it, too.

“Haven’t you been in Inarizaki for ten years? It’s not like there are twenty-five branch families; there are _five_.”

“Five too many.”

Sakusa pulls off his mask, mixing the contents of his fried rice. Atsumu stares at his face. It’s a handsome face – Atsumu can be objective. It’s almost infuriating, how smooth his skin is. Does wearing a mask have moisturizing effects? “I merely receive orders from superiors and execute them. There’s nothing interesting about it.”

“Bo-ring,” Atsumu twirls the chopstick between his index and middle fingers. “Tell me about yerself, then.”

“No.”

“I’m from Hyogo. Have one brother, but I guess ya know that. I’m the better twin.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“I’m hotter than ‘im, for one.”

“You’re twins; you are carbon copies of each other.”

“I have better hair, ‘kay?”

“Your hair is awful.”

“I’m tryin’ to carry on this shitty dialogue with ya, ‘cause we hafta work for who-knows-how-long. Does it hurt to be a little cooperative?”

“No, but it is mentally draining. I lose at least twenty additional brain cells per second when I’m in your presence.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Atsumu’s spoon clangs against his platter as he drops it, “I’m sure ya don’t have friends, Omi-kun.”

Sakusa continues chewing on his rice, and the lunch is consumed with tension in the air. They split the bill, get into Sakusa’s car that basically shrieks ‘germaphobe,’ as they drive to the last apartment on Atsumu’s list before inspecting the security camera footages. Approximately fifteen minutes into their journey, with Atsumu’s gaze fixed on the streets and Sakusa’s on the road, the traffic light red, a light sigh is heaved beside Atsumu.

“Asakusa.”

The blonde jerks up at that and blinks at Sakusa. Sakusa’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “I’m from Asakusa.”

Atsumu is at loss temporarily. “… Oh.” Sakusa from Asakusa. Atsumu would make a pun out of it if he weren’t so taken aback.

“I have an older brother and older sister.”

“Oh, cool.”

“They’re dead.”

“… Oh. Well, shit.” He squirms uncomfortably and his hand subconsciously spreads forward, until he remembers that this isn’t his car and there are no lollipops stocked underneath. “Were they involved in shit?”

“Not really.”

“I see.” He doesn’t pursue more than that. It was a definite landmine.

At this reaction, Sakusa scoffs. “What, feeling guilty, Miya?”

“Was bein’ considerate by shutting up for once, Omi-kun.”

“There’s no need.” His tone is nonchalant and tranquil, as if he’s talking about the weather. “It wasn’t a significant loss.”

 _Not a significant loss?_ He squints at Sakusa, partially expecting to catch the lie. He doesn’t.

Atsumu ruminates on it. Losing a sibling – losing Osamu. Not a significant loss. It’s appalling. That brawl with the east, where Osamu almost had his leg severed by their opponents with a hatchet – Atsumu saw red. He bashed the guy’s head into a brick, shot his ankle, shot his calves, fired, fired, and fired, until Osamu rushed to his side and slapped the gun out of his clutch. “ _Ya killed ‘im, stop.”_ And Atsumu held Osamu there for what seemed like hours, until reinforcements arrived and scrambled to their aid. He couldn’t lose Osamu. Anyone but Osamu. He doesn’t relate to Sakusa’s sentiment, but he also knows that people have different lives, different perspectives, and it’s none of his business. Not everyone was like Atsumu.

But, well. _Not a significant loss,_ really?

“I hope we get somethin’ useful today,” He transitions into another topic, because he doesn’t want to end on that note. “The last four houses were absolutely no help.”

The four residents were uncreative variations of Umihara and Iwano. Another prostitute, one pub waitress, a hostess, and a broke college student.

“I get that all of ‘em are invisible enough to have nobody suspect ‘em disappearing outta nowhere, like, ‘poof,’” Atsumu snaps his fingers for the effect, “But that college student – that one was weird.”

Sakusa hums. “How so?”

“The kotatsu was on.” He traces his memory back to the pipsqueak apartment. “There was curry on the stove, and she cooked at least five servings when she lived alone. It means she was plannin’ on comin’ back. That’s fine, she probably wasn’t expectin’ to get kidnapped or whatever. The door was locked.”

“Is this going somewhere?”

“Shh, be patient. Didja see the window, Omi-kun? It was unlocked, left open.”

Realization dawns upon the man belatedly. Atsumu grins. “Why’d she leave the window open if she was cold enough to turn on the kotatsu? Doesn’t make much sense to me why she left it on either. If she planned on going out, no matter how short a trip, a penniless college student would turn off that kotatsu – rakes up the electricity bill more than you’d like, and even the lights were on. Ya see where I’m goin’, Omi-kun?”

“She never left the house.”

“Bingo.” Atsumu leans back on the rubbery cushions. He’s getting used to these antimicrobial sheets as well. They’re pretty bearable, actually, once you accept the sensation of sitting on plastic. “Probably to avoid the security cameras. It’s a cheap apartment, so they only had one set up by the main entrance. Told Shirabu to check ‘em and he found the footage of her going in, but not out.”

Sakusa glances at him sideways. Atsumu’s grin widens. “Yer impressed by my genius deductions, aren’t ya?”

“Must be convenient that you can be so proud of doing your job.”

“Must be a real pain to have a stick up your ass twenty-four-seven.”

“It’s preferable to hideous hairdos, in my opinion.”

“The hell didja just say ‘bout my hair?”

“I never specified that it was your hair, Miya. Although your hair is hideous.”

 _I’m kinder than him. Miya Atsumu, you are a greater man._ “Well, we at least know that they’re familiar with the city – or at least, they hafta be from Tokyo, to memorize where those cameras are. Even local cops don’t do that.”

“Fair enough.”

The seventh and final apartment is underground – there is a barred window by the ceiling, where one can view rubber tires and the crowd’s shoes. Kugihara Miwako is the name of their victim; a thirty-year-old unemployed woman who often ran part-time shifts at the neighborhood clothing store when they were understaffed. The house is comparatively tidier than others, all the dishes on the rack and the rubbish bin empty. She doesn’t have framed photos or albums to imply that she was in contact with her family, and based on the small number of cosmetic products she has on her dresser, she evidently did not have friends or people to meet frequently. _Nothing, huh._ Atsumu nibbles on the inside of his cheek. That can mean they’d have to resort searching other apartments as well, in addition to the footages they haven’t watched. _Eats up too much time, damn it._

“Miya.”

He turns around when he’s addressed. Sakusa is on one knee, an object in his gloved hands. “What?” The object is flung towards him and Atsumu yelps, frantic to receive it. “ _Careful,_ what if it’s –“ It’s a bullet. A bloodied bullet, though it has dried. _Didn’t penetrate the body; grazed it. If they shot in this room, then it wasn’t to kill, ‘cause there’s no way they would’ve missed. Then…_ his form rigidifies when he rotates the bullet.

A black cat.

The insignia of Nekoma.

 _Nekoma_.

“Shit.” Atsumu clenches the bullet. “ _Agh,_ this just got hella annoyin’.”

“It’s from Nekoma’s firearms,” Sakusa reaffirms Atsumu’s frustration. “They’re the only ones who personalize their bullets.”

It is a Nekoma tradition and characteristic: their bullets bore the symbol of a cat. While Atsumu deemed it brainless, it was also because Nekoma scarcely utilized guns – they specialized in hand-to-hand combat and other weapons. When Nekoma used guns, it was for a purpose, which tended to be quite important.

“What are we doing?”

Atsumu’s own caution to Osamu rings in his head. This is a terrible idea. “We’re goin’ to the east, Nekoma headquarters.”

Sakusa grunts resignedly. “You’re dying alone, then.”

“Cruel.”

Nekoma’s Kuroo Tetsurou is infamous.

Atsumu has never breathed the same air with the man, more or less has seen his face. According to the tales, he’s a ruthless killer – you’re dead before you notice that he’s there to kill you. He was never arrested, is undefeated, and Nekoma’s backbone. Albeit the fact that Nekoma’s Kumicho was plenty notorious for his past himself, Kuroo of East Tokyo was a name that reverberated throughout Japan’s underworld industry.

The thing is, if it were just the stories, Atsumu had nothing to fear. Stories were stories. But Kita was the one to warn him, “ _Don’t mess with Kuroo, Atsumu. You can’t handle ‘im. Not yet.”_ Only Kuroo – it was only Kuroo who Kita had made it crystal – ‘don’t mess with him.’ And Atsumu did just that for ten years. He steered clear from Nekoma and ensured that it stayed that way.

“It seems rather foolish that we’re charging into Nekoma territory with no backup.”

“Ya think I dunno that? It’s not like we can drag the family here either, that’s like waging war.”

They’re staking out by the southern borders of Nekoma’s lands, beside a garbage dump. Sakusa was vehemently against the suggestion, but there was no substitute – it was either the garbage dump and a couple hours in a hygiene tragedy, or out in the open with the windshield as their single and final line of defense against Nekoma. Sakusa has been stiff for the past forty minutes, refusing to be even a nanometer closer to the black plastic bags outside the car.

Atsumu looks at the time – it’s twenty past eight. _Samu’s gonna be mad._

“You’ll be talking to Kuroo, by the way, if he ever does appear.”

“What? Why me?”

“I told you, you’re dying alone.”

“My death is the premise of this discussion, I see.” He swipes his screen, and the connection goes through. The receiver picks up before the first ring ends.

“ _Where the hell are ya?”_

Atsumu glues his attention to the dimly lit street ahead of them. All they both had about Kuroo’s attire was that he dressed like he had a constant hangover, including his hair. That’s a quite common style in their industry, so it doesn’t help their case much. “Ya gotta promise me that ya won’t yell.”

Osamu is soundless over the line, and Atsumu can sense his impending doom. Instinctively, he angles his face away from the speaker, “ _THE HELL YA DOIN’ IN NEKOMA, TSUMU?”_

Sakusa mutters something under his breath that’s a lot like, ‘ _I wonder.’_ “It’s complicated.” Sakusa: _‘It’s not.’_

“ _Oh, so ya can suddenly do shit while I can’t, huh? Ya legitimately were about to bite my head off if I said I’d go to Nekoma again, and now yer in Nekoma? What did I say about ya dyin’ early ‘cause ya had three brain cells? That’s right, Tsumu, I told ya that ya should_ consult _Kita-san first ‘cause even if he lets you die, it won’t be over somethin’ stupid. Now yer gonna die over somethin’ stupid, fuckin’ congratulations.”_

“I don’t know why everyone’s go-to is that I’m gonna die. Have y’all no faith?” Before Osamu can come up with a demeaning rejoinder, he chortles, “But if I do, tell ma that I love her, Samu.”

“ _We don’t have a ma, Tsumu.”_

“Yeah, but that’s what all the protagonists in the hero movies say before they’re off to fight.”

“ _Yer a colossal idiot. Don’t ever tell anyone that we share genes.”_

“We have the same face; I don’t think that’s necessary.” The streets are still dark and unoccupied. “Point is, heroes don’t die so I won’t either. Go to sleep, Samu.”

_“Whatever. Yer dinner’s in the fridge.”_

“Aye, aye.”

He hangs up and tucks his phone into his pocket. The absence of Osamu’s snarky jabs and the rowdiness of Inarizaki resonates deep in the night, the city eerily muted and lifeless. There’s no moon in the sky, only the malfunctioning lamps along the slim road ahead, and even all the shops are out of business. _Something’s wrong,_ shouts Atsumu’s senses, _or something is about to go south, either one._ The probability of any region of Tokyo being this deserted is practically zero, whether you’re in the outskirts or back alleys. “Omi-kun, ya know if this area is under Nekoma supervision?”

“It’s technically not.”

“So another organization owns it.”

“Who knows.”

The murky queasiness he feels amidst this obscurity – it’s the discomfort that numbs him when he shoots under Kita’s commands. During those occasions, however, it wasn’t an entire street.

It’s that moment when a pickup truck whizzes past them, headlights blinding Atsumu’s vision for a split second. _But,_ “Chase ‘im.” Quizzical and restless, Sakusa’s brow twitches, “ _Fuck,_ just _chase_ ‘im, Sakusa!” Within his next breath the car vibrates and comes to life, as adrenaline courses through Atsumu’s vessels. Sakusa doesn’t question him, racing far over the speed limit.

The truck has no plate number.

( _The same pattern. No tattoos, unidentifiable, kidnapping and drugging of women, and a vehicle within a radius of five meters without a plate number.)_

“Shit, they noticed us.” He lowers the window and stretches his upper torso out the frame, the gush of November wind colliding into his face full force. His bangs are blown away above his forehead, and his arm trembles as he battles to aim at the wing mirror of the truck. _I feel like my balls are gonna freeze, damn it._ He flexes his forearm and steadies his grip on the trigger.

_And fire._

The truck skids to the left when the wing mirror catapults off to the side. “Take me to the driver’s seat,” Atsumu urges over the cacophonous noise of engines and rubber tires. Sakusa obliges, pressing the gas and swerving to the right of the truck. It’s not more than half a minute before Atsumu extends his arm towards the driver, who frantically clutches the steering wheel and fights to outrun them, and shoots him. He shields his face from the glass shards which explode in all directions, some ripping his sleeve and puncturing his skin. _Samu’s gonna be furious when he does the laundry,_ is what Atsumu vaguely thinks as the truck tips over, and screeches to a halt.

“You’re mental,” gripes Sakusa.

“It’s how I roll, Omi-kun.”

The truck doesn’t look like it’s been stolen. _I’m really craving a lollipop,_ Atsumu scrutinizes the truck for a while, and then peers into the driver’s seat. He unlocks the door by sticking his hand through the shattered window and lets the corpse slide to the road. _If he doesn’t have a tattoo, then…_ the blade he carries in his blazer slices through the guy’s hoodie.

“Crap.”

Sakusa glances at him. “I don’t think I’m going to like what you’re about to say. Not that I ever do.”

“I think we have the wrong guy.”

Sakusa’s face reads, ‘fuck you,’ even with his mask on.

None of the targets Kita assigned had tattoos. This one does – an ugly rose on his ribs. What kind of tattoo parlor couldn’t do a rose properly? Atsumu should’ve asked the guy before shooting him. “Well, I’m not cleaning up the body for you.”

“ _Ughh,_ Kita-san is gonna slaughter me.”

“Good riddance.”

“Ya _shut_ yer mouth for a sec, Omi-kun.”

 _Miya Atsumu, you’re a colossal idiot._ He should’ve thought the consequences through – not that Atsumu ever thought anything through before swinging into action – but of course, there had to be a ton of numberless plates around; they were yakuza, for Christ’s sake. They dealt with crime like they ate breakfast every morning. He mentally writes a list of how Kita would react upon being relayed the incident – _okay, well, I’m not even supposed to be here, so that’s already off to a gruesome start._

“Miya.”

“Gimme a moment, I’m mourning my death just in case.”

“There’s a person in the back.”

“What?” Atsumu regains his composure and joins Sakusa. “… That a lass or a lad?” He can’t distinguish the gender based on their posture – they’re lying on the cushions, gagged, wrists and ankles bound, bruises blossoming on their cheekbones and dyed golden locks matted over their face, reaching their shoulders. “… They ain’t dead, are they?”

Sakusa shrugs, “Their body rises periodically – barely. They’ll live if someone rescues them by noon.”

“We’re just gonna leave ‘em?”

“We aren’t philanthropists, heroes, or doctors, Miya. We don’t know when the police will show – move it.” Atsumu doesn’t budge. “ _Miya_.” It’s not his fault that his brain supplies him with the image of his dinner in the fridge, or Osamu dozing off on the couch, most definitely waiting for Atsumu and cursing him out for being late all year. It’s not his fault that the human in him associates that with the nobody in this car, who might have something like that. His arm stings, where he didn’t remove the shards from earlier. He takes out his phone again anyway. Sakusa rubs the back of his neck wearily.

“ _Tsumu-Tsumu-kun? What a surprise!”_

“Hi, Tendou-san. I have a favor, kinda.”

“ _Aha.”_

“Is your clinic still open?”

“ _Well, yes. Why, has Kita-chan finally kicked you out? My beds are comfy, y’know?”_

“Thanks, but I don’t think Ushijima-san is gonna be too happy with that. I just have a patient for ya.”

_“Mm, well, bring them over.”_

“Yer the best, Tendou-san.”

_“I don’t do this for charity, so no worries. You’re paying for this, Tsumu-Tsumu.”_

_Dang, I thought I almost had him. Not that I was gonna ask for a free favor from Tendou._ “Omi-kun, we’re gonna drive this one to Shiratorizawa’s clinic. Mind leavin’ the door open so I can chuck ‘em in?”

“And the body?”

“Eh, gotta hope someone in Nekoma takes the blame. I don’t think cameras around are functioning, so we might get lucky. Anyway,” He hops into the truck and fists the collar of – _oh, it’s a boy –_ the blonde and slings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. At least he weighs almost nothing. Atsumu strides over and shoves the boy into the back and climbs into his seat. “Let’s get outta here.”

“Should’ve done that when you killed the wrong guy.”

“Just _drive,_ will ya?”

Tendou Satori is an underground surgeon affiliated with Shiratorizawa and is probably a surgeon who has a higher record for throats he slit than treated patients. He met him through Shirabu during their joint task and kept in contact ever since; over eighty percent of Inarizaki’s dead bodies were shipped to Tendou for experimentation and analysis. Even now, Atsumu does not wish to know what those opaque jars aligned in Tendou’s cabinets contain. It’s certainly not medicine or anesthetics.

“So,” Atsumu taps his foot, perched on the stool. Sakusa is also _sitting_ for once – Tendou gestured at his bottles of sanitizer when they arrived, and Atsumu was sure that every microspecies in this room had been annihilated afterward. “How’s the lad?”

Tendou’s stethoscope slides down to his neck – his lab coat has more Shounen Jump doodles on it than his last visit. “Healthy – a little sleep-deprived, perhaps. I don’t think he’s consuming much vitamins either. No broken bones, but his ribs are bruised. Looks like he was smacked around a few times on the face. ‘s fine, he’ll live.”

“Thanks for patching up my arm, too.”

“Nah, that’s all going out of your wallet, anyway. Ah, and you – mysophobia dude? Omi-Omi, was it? Didn’t ever see you around. A branch family member and you’re paired with Tsumu-Tsumu? Lamentable.”

“Tendou-san, _rude_.”

“I’m just saying, because I don’t think you or your partner has grasped the severity of this situation yet.” Tendou juts his chin at the boy on his bed. “You know who this cutie is?”

 _Aha. I don’t want to know who I just impulsively saved._ “No?”

“Kozume Kenma – that ring a bell?”

It does not, but it apparently does for Sakusa, because he bends over and grits out, “ _God.”_

Tendou cackles. “Yeah, you probably need someone almighty like god to deal with this debacle.”

“O- _kay_ , Tendou-san, I think that’s our signal to get the hell outta here, I’ll pay ya tomorrow –“

“He’s the grandson of Nekomata Yasafumi. Or, you know, the Nekoma Kumicho’s grandson.”

And this is _exactly_ why Atsumu doesn’t do nice things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sakusa from A-Sakusa.


	4. Kuroo Tetsurou and Kozume Kenma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! It was very nice to hear from several different people about the previous chapter :D Thanks for all the attention (I love attention) and the hype surrounding this fic! 
> 
> This chapter has little action, but more complex... stuff going on (my vocab is limited today pls forgive me). I'll explain in bullet point format at the end of the chapter for those who feel like the chapter itself left some questions. Enjoy!

“I have a question, Tsumu.”

“Not now, Samu.”

“It’s a pretty fuckin’ important question.”

“Not now.”

“Ya better have a superb reason as to why we have a horde of cats in our apartment four in the damned morning, then.”

“It was a noble reason, dear brother.”

 _Or was it,_ Atsumu sulks, as he offers a wry smile at the three men across them – Yaku Morisuke, Kuroo Tetsurou, and Kai Nobuyuki, in that order.

“It’s okay,” Kuroo’s iris glints ominously. “We don’t always bite.”

It all goes back to six hours ago, in Tendou’s clinic.

“What the _heck_ is Nekomata’s grandson doin’, bein’ kidnapped in the middle of nowhere?”

Tendou was drawing a kitten on Kozume’s bandages, carefree. “Kozume Kenma isn’t Nekoma’s heir, that’s why. I don’t know which idiot was bold enough to kidnap him, but my hypothesis is that he just snatched a random kid on the street for ransom, and that turned out to be one of Tokyo’s most disreputable gang’s young master. I heard the kid was a shut-in; no wonder you don’t know his name. Pew-pew.”

 _Atsumu, think. You must think._ “… Ya think they’d let me off if I return ‘im at their front porch gently?”

“Nope!”

“Right. Thought so.”

Sakusa snarled, “I said we should’ve just _moved on,_ Miya. His injuries weren’t fatal; he would’ve lived.”

“How was I ought to _know_ that? He might’ve had internal bleeding, brain damage, _gah_.”

“This way or that,” Tendou capped his permanent marker, “You’ll have to take him elsewhere. I can’t rope Shiratorizawa into this as well, you see – Wakatoshi-kun likes me, but he doesn’t appreciate disorder.”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll pay ya tomorrow – send me the bill.”

“Will do!”

Atsumu hoisted Kozume into the car once more. Sakusa had his arms folded and brows creased – Atsumu almost caught a vein protruding from his forehead. Couldn’t blame him; this was on Atsumu. Not only did he mistake their target, but he also insisted on rescuing a civilian who turned out to not be an ordinary civilian at all, and – _and_ they still had to confront Nekoma about the bullet. Atsumu’s wristwatch ticked to eleven – _eleven. It was only eleven._

“Sorry.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’ll do somethin’ ‘bout it. Ya wanna go home?”

Sakusa was static. _Maybe he’s too enraged to speak – I get that._ He heard a shuddering breath in, then out. “Why did you save him?”

“Huh?”

“Kozume. Why did you save him?”

“Ya gonna let me off the hook if I have a good answer?”

“No.”

“’kay.” The question buzzed in Atsumu’s head? _Why?_ It wasn’t like he had a defined logic behind his behavior, how was he supposed to respond to that?

( _“…_ _I can’t do this anymore, I keep seeing things- and, and I- you told me it’d feel amazing, you said, you said…”_ )

“I just believe,” He was yearning for a lollipop. Honey lemon would be tasty. Maybe coke. “I just believe, ya don’t hafta let everyone die.” There was something his mother said when he was younger. He doesn’t even remember what she looked like – only some features, like her slender fingers and painted nails, citric perfume. _What did she say again? She said… oh._ “Don’t ya think if yer able to save at least one person in yer life, that’s a fulfilling life?”

Sakusa didn’t reply, simply had his pinky go up, down, up down, on his elbow. “We kill more people than we save.”

“I guess so.”

Atsumu did not count the number of people he shot in his lifetime. He used to – he used to learn their names, their faces. He quit after the seventeenth one, when the surname of the first was becoming hazy in his mind. _What’s the point,_ it just made his job harder. Some just weren’t worth remembering, too. But, well.

“I might be able to connect you with Kuroo.”

He nearly ricocheted off his chair as he swirled towards Sakusa. “Really?” Sakusa’s arms weren’t crossed anymore. “Like, legit?”

“Well, the stakeout plan was a failure. What other option do we have?”

“But, uh. How?”

“I have my connections.” _Wow, that’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever told me this week._ “You figure out a plan that is not going to engender a second yakuza war.”

“Gotcha.”

_All circumstances considered, neither side is at an advantage. We have their bullet. We can prove our innocence if that young master awakens from his slumber. There’s that truck and driver’s body too – if the cops didn’t get to it first. We have a chance if we can prove that they’ve been doing business in our territory; the bullet was found in an apartment within our dominion. We can tie knots in a pacified manner if they admit to their crimes; they don’t want the dogs involved either. We’re all yakuza at the end of the day._

“Miya.” Sakusa’s cellphone – was in ziplock bag, what even – was passed to him. “You have Kuroo Tetsurou on the line.”

‘ _Already?’_ Mouthed Atsumu. Sakusa’s brows furrowed in warning. _‘Okay, okay.’_ “Ya have Miya Atsumu on the phone.”

“ _Good evening, it’s Kuroo Tetsurou, shateigashira of Nekoma. I heard you have our bocchan.”_

“Aha, about that – let’s not phrase it like that, shall we? We _found_ and _rescued_ yer precious princess. Chivalrous, don’t ya agree?”

_“He’ll slice your innards if you call him that in person, careful. Thank you for retrieving him, but we’re in a tight spot here – we’d appreciate if you could deliver him back to us.”_

Atsumu hummed a tune, “For free?”

_“We’re not trying to negotiate, Miya.”_

“Well, I am. Kitten’s an arm’s length away – I can slice _his_ innards any sec. Ya probably wanna hear this, too. It’s for yer benefit.”

 _One, two, three…_ “ _Let’s hear it, then.”_

“I just shot a guy in yer bounds,” _You’re a professional actor, act confident, act confident._ “If the dogs haven’t sniffed it out first, there should be a truck and a dead man at 5-chome street. Technically not even yer area, but ya know.”

_“Sounds like a provocation than a negotiation to me, Miya. Killing on foreign lands – you should understand what that implies.”_

Atsumu did. Killing on other yakuza territory referred to an unspoken statute – _don’t do it_. It was something that could trigger the police in their region, possibly have the other family’s superior without an alibi arrested, and consequently evolve into a full-out strife between families. “I know it does,” He could pull this off. He was Miya Atsumu of Inarizaki, trained under Kita Shinsuke, oldest of the Miya twins. “But we have some matters to discuss too, ya see. I gave ya the location of the truck – he kidnapped yer dear bocchan, by the way – let’s call that my payment of the meetup.”

_“… And if the dogs got to it already?”_

“I’ll turn myself in.”

“You’ll _what_?” Blurted Sakusa from the side, but Atsumu shushed him.

“I’ll turn myself in.”

“ _It’s murder, Miya. Even Kita will struggle to get you out of the muck.”_

“’s fine, it’s my shit. That a deal, then?”

There was a whirring crackle from the other line, probably Kuroo blowing into the speaker. “ _I’ll have to contact my subordinates to scout the area and verify whether the body is still there. It’ll take a few hours to receive consent from our Kumicho. We want Kozume Kenma back uninjured and alive. Then we’ll proceed with whatever you need to confer with us. Deal?”_

“I mean, he’s got some scratches from the other dude, but that wasn’t us. Done, though.”

“ _Sweet.”_

When Atsumu handed back the phone, Sakusa hissed on beat. “Do you _actually_ function on three brain cells, Miya?”

“Did Samu tell ya that? That fucking bastard.”

“That’s not –“

“Ya worried ‘bout me, Omi?” Sakusa’s mask crumpled. “Wow, yer mask does expressions, that’s astounding. It’s alright – the goddess of luck usually kisses my hand.”

“And if she doesn’t?”

“Gotta get on my knees and beg for her to come back.”

“Hah,” _Heh. He laughed. He laughed, didn’t he? He definitely laughed._ The moths that flew in circles beneath the lamps illuminating the moonless night danced across Sakusa’s translucent face in shadows, his orbs obsidian, pupil and iris an indistinguishable lake of black. His curls brushed over his moles as his mask jerked upward, albeit barely. “I won’t beg with you.”

Something tickled his ribs. _Huh. Weird._ “Didn’t think you would.”

“I can mock you by the sidelines.”

“That’s fine with me.”

_Weird._

Fortunately, he didn’t have to beg.

‘ _Found the body, took care of it. You’re in luck,’_ read Kuroo’s message an hour later. ‘ _We’re heading over to our Kumicho’s right now. Choose a location and we’ll be there by four. Keep your part of the deal.’_

_‘That goes unsaid.’_

“I _live_!” Atsumu pumped his fist, “I live, Omi-kun, ya hear that?”

“Yes. Such a shame that the goddess of luck has no taste.”

“What can ya say, a gorgeous face is a universal cheat key.”

“And the meeting spot? Where is it going to be?”

“I mean,” He would do it at Inarizaki, but he wasn’t mentally prepared to manage Kita’s wrath. He didn’t want to do it at Nekoma for obvious reasons, other than the fact that he just shot a person there. “It’s gotta be my place, right? Realistically.” The inner-Atsumu was bugging to crash at Sakusa’s, but even he had common sense – Sakusa, being the germaphobe he was, would definitely flip out. “Although Samu’s gonna be livid, all in all he’s better than Kita-san.”

Sakusa fastened his belt again, “Fair. You’d have to break it to him tomorrow, though.”

“Ya mean today, it’s past midnight.” Atsumu snuck a glimpse at Sakusa. “Sorry, makin’ ya drive all day. I’ll cover for yer gas.”

“No need. I’m volunteering because I don’t want to be in your car to begin with.”

The jibe didn’t even affect him as much as their first day together. “Just shut up and take it when I’m bein’ generous, Omi-kun, this is a super rare occasion. Ya landed yerself free gas, ya know?”

“Alright, then.”

And they drove with the low rumble of the engine as their default background music, the lack of dialogue not as tense or awkward as that morning. It had to be true – troubles made people bond. Atsumu inwardly snorted as he recalled how Sakusa rejected his handshake in front of the rest. _If I saw his car before that, I wouldn’t have even offered one._

It took another half hour to Atsumu and Osamu’s complex. As Kozume’s moist breath warmed Atsumu’s earlobe, it struck Atsumu how frail the boy was. In the reflection of the lift’s mirrors, he looked no older than twenty – _nah, I looked older than ‘im in middle school. Grandson – he’s this young?_ “Ah, Omi-kun, ya can spray that sanitizer wherever ya want, but Osamu doesn’t like it when someone intrudes his kitchen, so stay outta there. Otherwise, make yerself at home.”

As his fingers pressed the passcode, it occurred to Atsumu: _Ah. I didn’t tell Osamu about this yet._

His brother was balanced on one foot, shoulder against the drawer by the entrance, bruises under his eyes and lips fixed in a downturned, ‘You’re-an-idiot-and-I-already-knew-that-but-you’re-an-idiot-anyway’ scowl. He wobbled to both feet when he saw Sakusa beside him, then blinked when he noticed Kozume on Atsumu’s back. “… What the hell are ya bringing back home, Tsumu?”

“Hello to you too, Samu,” greeted Atsumu, kicking his loafers off. “This is Omi-kun, and this lad is someone who ya don’t wanna know about.”

“Yer draggin’ ‘im to yer bedroom, Tsumu, I think I deserve to get a name.”

“Ya will soon enough and ya won’t like it, so why not live in the bliss of ignorance for a little longer?”

Osamu squinted at Sakusa to affirm this. “It’s true,” conceded Sakusa, as he squirted his sanitizer around the area where he was planning to stand.

“What, is he the prime minister’s illegitimate child?”

“No.”

“Middle eastern prince.”

“Hm, that, but a little less…” Atsumu shoveled through his rather limited vocabulary, “ _royal_.”

Osamu stared at Kozume, then at his brother, then at Sakusa (who was still casually wiping out his circle on the floor), and at his brother again. “I think I know exactly who yer talkin’ about, but I really hope I’m incorrect.”

Sakusa grumbled, “You’re probably right.”

“Don’t jinx it, Sakusa-san.”

 _Please wake up before yer Prince Philip gets here, Sleeping Beauty,_ implored Atsumu as he tucked Kozume under his sheets – the boy was sleeping soundly, the whistling of air audible as he breathed through his nostrils. He texted Kuroo the specific coordinates of his apartment. _… Or are you not waking up because I called you princess? If that’s the case, I’ll apologize when you get up._

Osamu was boiling water in their kettle when Atsumu reemerged from his bedroom. “Want coffee? Ya heat yer own dinner, Tsumu.”

“Yes coffee, ‘cause it doesn’t seem like I’m gonna be kissin’ my pillow tonight.” There was onigiri in the fridge. “Onigiri again? Ya the fairy of onigiri or somethin’, Samu?”

“Complain after ya cook yer own meals. Sakusa-san, coffee?”

“Ah, no. Thank you.”

Atsumu’s onigiri was filled to the brim with fatty tuna. The saltiness of the soy sauce soaked into the fish and the exquisite flavor of fat brought tears of joy to the man – it felt like three years since he ate a proper meal when in reality, it was less than twenty-four hours ago. “Ya know, Samu,” ‘Huh,’ “This is why we were born as twins. I’m eye candy, and yer the one that keeps me alive.”

“My life has more value than bein’ yer personal chef, Tsumu. Don’t blubber shit and finish yer food. Sakusa-san, I have leftover rice and tuna-zuke. I can give it to ya separately if yer uncomfortable with me touching it.”

“Oh,” Sakusa ceased his spraying, “I’ll have some, then.”

“Alright.”

Sakusa cleansed his stool by the dining table before sitting across Atsumu. “Your brother is a much more sensible human being than you are; I knew you were lying when you said you were the better twin.” Osamu snorted in the kitchen.

“ _Wha_ \- ya met ‘im for an hour, ya can’t say that!”

“Sometimes, you just can.”

They lounged around; Sakusa nibbled on his rice and washed his own utensils afterward, Osamu made sure Kozume was breathing in Atsumu’s bedroom every thirty minutes, and Atsumu called Shirabu to confirm that the surveillance cameras by the road where he shot the driver were off – _“The hell were you doing in Nekoma territory, Atsumu-san?” “I don’t wanna talk ‘bout it.” “Well, the screens are all black. You were lucky.”_

At four o’ clock sharp, the doorbell rang. Atsumu adjusted his tie and patted out the wrinkles on his shirt.

He unlocked the door.

“Hi, Miya.”

And now they are here – Osamu with his hands smashed over his face in misery, Sakusa standing in his invincible hygiene circle of 1% germs, and the fakest smile plastered over Atsumu’s face.

From Atsumu’s left – Yaku Morisuke. Probably the shortest yakuza Atsumu has seen to date, but he also has a premonition that he would be at the brink of death if he ever mentions that fact. He had introduced himself as Kuroo’s personal aide, and Atsumu saw the blade inserted under the man’s sleeve when they shook hands.

On the right is Kai Nobuyuki, also Kuroo’s aide and Nekoma’s official interlocutor for meetings with other families. He reminds Atsumu of Aran, but a toned-down version.

And in the middle – Kuroo Tetsurou, shateigashira of Nekoma, knee-deep in the underworld for sixteen years, despite being from Kita’s generation. That meant he was in since _ten –_ ten years old and yakuza, that had to mess up a person, right? But it’s also not too alarming, especially with how Kuroo is dressed: the constant hangover look, but hotter. The upper half of his button-down is undone, a tie slung around under the collar, his hair mussed, legs spread, his tight pants accenting his thighs. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbow, the silver Rolex on his wrist covering the burn scar beneath. He wears a lopsided grin, but Atsumu’s senses are heightened – everything about this man is screaming trouble – it’s as alerting as it turns him on, just a little.

“First things first,” Kuroo leans in, “where’s Kenma?”

“Safe and sound on my bed,” Kuroo’s lips are smiling but his eyes aren’t. _Huh, he’s bothered. He’s bothered, ain’t he? He’s definitely bothered. And ‘Kenma,’ eh, not ‘Kozume.’_ “Didn’t do anythin’, don’t look at me like I’m scum. Yer scarin’ me, Kuroo-san.”

“Just to clarify,” Osamu raises his hand with much reluctance, “’Kenma,’ as in ‘Kozume Kenma’?”

“Who else would it be?” Yaku snaps, teeth bared. “Did your moronic brother not tell you already?”

“He’s a moron for a reason.” ‘ _I’ll strangle ya later. With yer fuckin’ beloved fatty tuna leftovers.’_ Is what Osamu seems to be communicating with his glower – twin telepathy. “Continue, please.”

“And I don’t think we got a name from the gentleman over there,” Kai says soothingly, like one of those evening radio DJ’s Suna likes to put on.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi. I drove the car.”

“Good to know.” Kuroo popped a lemon sour into his mouth. “So, I think we’d like an explanation as to why you were in 5-chome. It all seems too… fabricated to be coincidental, don’t you agree?” Atsumu won’t be surprised if Kuroo has planted a mini dynamite in that bottle of lemon sours and decides to chuck it at him this very second. “Kenma is kidnapped, and then you are somehow there just when the truck passes by, shoot him, and retrieve Kenma.” Pause – Atsumu doesn’t miss how Kuroo’s slanted smile drops shortly. “What do you want? Money? Because what you did – murder on our property with evidence out in the open that could put Nekoma at risk, taking our Kumicho’s grandson, and also,” Attention curbs to Osamu. “Your twin was spotted at 2-chome a couple days ago. We let him go because, well…”

Osamu pales, “Oh, shit, that was _filmed_?”

“Quite unfortunately, yes. I didn’t watch it, though.”

Yaku groans, “I did. It was _awful_.”

A gigantic, figurative ‘loading’ icon floats above Atsumu, until it clicks. “ _Christ,_ you- Suna –“

“Shut up, Tsumu, we didn’t think it’d escalate like that either.”

“Your brother takes it up the ass by the way, did you know that?”

“ _Ohmygod, Samu.”_ In his periphery, Sakusa is cringing. He’s probably thinking about how unsanitary outdoor sex is.

“Anyway. Why do we have to negotiate with you, when we aren’t even certain that this was planned ahead?”

 _Kozume-kun, I’d love it if you wake up anytime now. Like, now. I mean ‘now.’_ “We found somethin’ south of our bounds.” The bullet is placed on the roundtable with a ‘click.’ Yaku’s scowl transforms into one of disbelief, Kai blinks, and the crushing echo of the lemon sour in Kuroo’s mouth resounds throughout the living room. “Care to explain?”

“This is impossible,” gripes Yaku hastily, “nobody issued a command about using a bullet this month. These bullets can only be shot under the Kumicho, wakagashira, and shateigashira’s orders. To which –“

“None of us have given,” Kuroo finishes.

“Well, it was there –“

“Kugihara Miwako.” Sakusa’s calm, collected voice rips through their altercation. “She’s a resident of the red-light district neighborhood in the southern region of Inarizaki’s lands. Unemployed, worked part-time in a local clothing store. Her corpse was not found, but the bullet was on the floor. Thirty-four civilians in Inarizaki have disappeared this past month. While women of poor socioeconomic status are being targeted for now, it is a matter of time before the police catches on and suspects Inarizaki.” He stares at Nekoma. “ _We_ should be questioning why this negotiation is necessary at all. Miya did not report this to Kumicho Kurosu yet. Depending on how you act, this could evolve into a bloodbath. Is that what Nekoma wants?”

Kuroo cupped his jaw with his palm, pensive. “… I see, this makes more sense. But –“

“Kuroo?”

Feathery, light – Kozume Kenma whispers, his hand clasping the doorframe of Atsumu’s room, lips thinned.

_Finally, Sleeping Beauty is here._

“Kenma,” Kuroo rises from the couch. Atsumu gawks at the one-eighty switch in Kuroo’s demeanor the instant he sees Kozume – _that is not the man who was sitting across me just now._ Kuroo fixes Kenma’s tangled cowlicks and brushes a thumb over the bruises dotting his face. It’s oddly intimate. _Aha. With his Kumicho’s grandson, that’s bold. Wait, wasn’t that kid a high schooler?_

The next minute, Kenma’s wedged between Kuroo’s legs on the couch again. It’s a little weird.

“As I was saying,” the shateigashira’s arms wrap around Kozume’s neck. _He doesn’t have a concept of PDA, does he?_ But then again, there’s his twin. “We can confirm whether that bullet’s actually ours, now that Kenma is awake.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

The pudding head is already on it, scanning the bullet between his fingers. “Mori, do you have my light?”

“Ah, yeah.”

They all watch as Kozume flashes a ray of blue light over the bullet. The boy turns it off. “This bullet isn’t Nekoma’s.”

“What? But the insignia on it –“

“Is ours, yes. It’s forged. It’s well done too, they have it down to perfection. But the serial number is incorrect – it’s not the one for this month.”

Kuroo butts in, “Kenma designs and organizes the manufacturing procedure for Nekoma’s personalized bullets. On the exterior, you’ll only be able to perceive the black cat, our symbol. When you shine this special light on it, there’s a serial number. It changes every month, and Kenma’s the only one who knows it. Not even our Kumicho is informed of the digits. It’s no wonder they couldn’t copy that.” The bullet rolls on the wooden surface, “in conclusion, this isn’t ours.”

“Uh,” Amidst the tsunami of information that swarms Atsumu, what he manages to inquire is, “aren’t ya a high schooler?”

Kuroo explodes into a fit of laughter. Yaku snickers. Kai doesn’t react much.

“I’m twenty-four.”

_No fucking way._

“You’re embarrassing,” Sakusa mutters, and Atsumu hisses at him.

“Okay, okay, but in all seriousness,” Yaku licks his bottom lip, “That would mean someone leaked our bullet’s design – this is too flawless. Kuroo.”

The man threw his head back. “Agh, yeah. Could be someone from our side – east. We never ordered any of our underlings to shoot this bullet in the west – not that they’re authorized to – in the last… more than twenty years. Besides, we’ve had some kidnappings in our area too. Might be the same organization. We’ll have to investigate this privately.” Kuroo beamed at Atsumu. “We owe you, Miya.”

“Oh.” _Well, that sounded stupid. Probably should say something else._ “Uh, yer welcome.” Osamu nudges him.

“No, really. We do owe you. Your partner – Sakusa… was it? He’s right. If you did report this immediately to Kita-kun, Ojiro-kun, or your Kumicho – this could’ve been worse. About taking Kenma… Kenma, what happened?”

“Some man attacked me when I was playing games while crossing the road. It wasn’t Miya.”

Kuroo sniffs coolly, “Well, there you have it. Your innocence has been proven by our young master. There is the possibility that that guy is your accomplice but seems unlikely. From what I hear about you, you aren’t the killing type.”

“Is that so? Doesn’t sound too intimidating for my rep.”

“Your hit number isn’t the only factor that makes you a threat.” Kuroo stands – and carries Kozume along with him, despite the latter’s soft-spoken protests, “You have my number, don’t you, Miya? Save it – I’ll save yours. Call me when you need help for something. Or give me a location, and I’ll be there in at least fifteen.”

“Er.”

“Do it; I hate being indebted to someone. Ah, this isn’t for Inarizaki, though. It’s for you. Call me when _y_ ou need it, not the foxes.” Atsumu sits there dumbfounded in his own house, and as Kuroo departs, he says:

“Take care, _Atsumu_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Points you should take away:  
> 1\. Committing crime in other yakuza gangs' territory is typically prohibited (the police in the area will immediately suspect the gang that dominates that region to be the culprit, especially crimes relating to drugs, gun violence, etc.) [*This is not necessarily reflective of actual yakuza dynamics in Japan, but is for the sake of this fic.)  
> 2\. This makes Atsumu's behavior on Nekoma's territory problematic (murder + "kidnapping" Kenma)  
> 3\. But Nekoma's bullet was found first, and the disappearance of women in Inarizaki had been going on throughout the entire month (this turns tables for Atsumu)  
> 4\. The reason why Kuroo thanks Atsumu is because he didn't report this fact (finding the bullet and connecting that to Nekoma immediately) to his Kumicho, because that would've led to a misunderstanding and an uncalled strife between Nekoma and Inarizaki
> 
> And... that's it! I know there are other points left unanswered (ex: why were the security cameras turned off, why are women disappearing in Nekoma too, etc.) and it's because those will be addressed in future chapters :)


	5. The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally skipped class to write this chapter (bad idea, do not follow) lmaooo
> 
> It's mainly because I've been updating frequently nowadays that I (probably) should focus on studying for my finals. I'll update maybe on Sunday, maybe after that, but just know that the next update will not be in the next two days unless I decide to procrastinate real hard -- which is why this chapter is out after literally 24 hours!
> 
> That being said, it's also unedited (not that I really edited my previous chapters), so ignore any stupid grammar errors and whatnot. Enjoy!

“I know it sounds bad.”

_Tick._

“I’m really sorry.”

_Tock._

“Ya know how I don’t… _think_. A lot.”

_Tick._

“I’m really sorry, Kita-san.”

Kita sighs. “Are ya?”

“ _Kita-san.”_

“Do ya understand the gravity of the situation, Atsumu?” _For once, yes._ “Ya _should’ve_ reported to me before _anything_ , _anyone_. I would’ve done somethin’ myself, without notifying our Kumicho. There are alternatives to war. I don’t know what got ya thinkin’ I’d do otherwise. And Kuroo Tetsurou, Atsumu, what have I told ya ‘bout ‘im? If you weren’t holding Kozume Kenma hostage – which, is already a point of major concern – then he would’ve shot ya, Atsumu. I should’ve taught ya more about _people_ than math equations when ya were in high school.”

“I’m aware that it’s pure luck that I’m alive,” Atsumu admits easily because it’s the truth. “It won’t happen again.”

“Of course.” Kita sips from his mug of green tea. “How’s Sakusa Kiyoomi?”

“Ah, he’s…” A week. They’ve been together for a week – almost. It feels longer, probably since they spend three-quarters of the day stuck in Sakusa’s car. Atsumu’s readapted morning routine is to shower, eat breakfast, and coat his hands with Sakusa’s sanitizer – the stench of alcohol doesn’t assault his olfactory buds with the same strength as day one, not anymore. Sakusa has allowed Atsumu to eat lollipops in the car, as long as he didn’t dispose the plastic stick inside. He’s attentive, fast, and frankly, is compatible with Atsumu, despite being the jerk he is. “He’s fine.”

“Mm. Nothing suspicious?”

“Not so far, nah.”

“Alright. You have another target tonight.”

“Oh,” Atsumu hopes his fatigue doesn’t show. He drove himself here in his own car as soon as Nekoma left; the leather of his seat and head support felt strange, after a week of plastic sheets in Sakusa’s Audi. In the span of the previous forty-three hours, he found Nekoma’s bullet in Kugihara’s apartment, shot a kidnapper, confronted Nekoma, and confessed to Kita about his mishaps. He has to watch the footages from Shirabu today with Sakusa, too. “Okay. I’ll call when I’m done.” Kita swirls – that’s his cue to get out. Atsumu presses his thumbs against each other. “Kita-san, is… does the Kumicho know?”

Kita faces him.

“Does he know about what?”

“That yer tellin’ me to shoot people off the street.”

There were more than thirty-four incidents if those lurking around Inarizaki territory and the dealers were really from the same organization. At this point, Atsumu is ninety-five percent certain that they are. And he’s never been as shrewd as his twin, but he’s been here for ten years, and experience is a more valuable asset than most believe. If they were able to sneak into Nekoma’s barriers and trigger a clash between two chief yakuza gangs in Tokyo, they were not some no-name organization. This is big.

“Atsumu,” Kita tilts his head, “do ya trust me?”

He drops his hands to his sides. “Yeah. More than myself, most of the time.”

“Then trust me on this one.”

A note of finality.

“Alright.”

 _Kita-san intentionally withholding information from the Kumicho,_ Atsumu ponders as he exits the office, hands shoved into his pockets. _Just how much shit is going down the drain?_ Kita is an inscrutable man. He’s like a massive book, where you’re only allowed to read one page a day – not even chapter by chapter, but arbitrary portions – and the more you’re with him, you are able to connect some details, while others are left isolated. But as far as Atsumu knows, Kita is also loyal to Inarizaki. If Kita was therefore, hiding his knowledge from the boss, that meant one or the other: Kita was betraying Inarizaki, or the Kumicho was.

“Not that it matters,” He grunts aloud, “I’ll be with Kita-san.”

“Huh. That means I have to be with Kita-san, too.”

 _God, he freaked me out._ “Sunarin? What?”

Suna is sucking on one of his favorite jelly fruit sticks. “Well, if you’re with Kita-san, that means Osamu will follow you. And I’m just wherever Osamu is.” He chews on the snack, “Not that I know what you’re referring to.”

Osamu and Suna. Nekoma. Public sex.

“Ya know, Sunarin,” _Yuck, I remembered that Yaku or whoever saying Samu takes it up the ass. Ew. Did not need that image in my head._ “I’m fine with ya datin’ Samu –“

“We’re not.”

“Well, _whatever_ it is that yer doin’, just. Keep it under.”

Suna huffs at him, “Really, you’re not the one to say. I saw that guy from Nohebi biting your ass in your car. You had your lights _on_.”

“’kay, that was _one time,_ and I was eighteen and horny as hell. Not to mention, I had like, seven bottles of sake that night, wasn’t in the right headspace.”

“Well, I don’t know what you saw, but,” The other sucks the remnants of his jelly stick. “Osamu gets turned on from being watched. Just saying.”

“ _Why are you guys like this_ ,” wails Atsumu.

“Ask your brother. I have an appointment with Aran-san. Also, forgot to mention – you look like shit.”

“Slander – I’m beautiful.”

“Don’t say that with a fouler version of Osamu’s face.”

Suna trudges up the stairs and Atsumu suppresses the urge to yank his collar and have him tumbling down. Out of his thoughtful, benevolent nature, he chooses not to. _Gotta finish watching those footages today, or we’re never gonna get anywhere._ Although the 4AM meetup with Nekoma provided insight that 1) someone was being real brave and stupid for trying to pit two massive gangs against each other, 2) this someone was probably affluent and powerful enough to do so, 3) they had a personal vendetta against the female population (or found them easy targets, same thing to Atsumu) and 4) Atsumu got no sleep.

_Ah, wait. The last point wasn’t brought up, just subconsciously noted._

Overall, they are back to square one, and Atsumu is Not Happy, in capital letters.

He drags his heels through the dimly lit lobby of Inarizaki’s headquarters. Nobody is typically present in the morning sans Kita and Ojiro, who literally lived in the building. While Atsumu knows from personal experience that the armchairs in the lobby have been abused for indecent purposes which he prefers to not recall, he’s also dying to flop over the cushions and knock himself out for the next two days.

He does stare at the chairs for a solid two minutes, considering the idea.

 _But Kita-san’s already mad, so._ He had to at least do his job right.

He could sleep in his car, but – he doesn’t feel like he’d able to wake up again, at least not on his own. Osamu had once dumped a bucket of ice over Atsumu’s body when they had to dash because their apartment was set on fire, and that was _after_ the fire alarm had been ringing like crazy for ten minutes. So, it was either wake up on his own or never.

A lumpy gray shadow shimmers over the cement surface of the parking lot against the morning sun. Atsumu lifts his face and, “Omi?”

Sakusa is pacing around the parking lot like he did when Atsumu saw him their first day. _I wonder if he does that because he thinks being in one place too long would be a source of contamination,_ Atsumu thinks hazily, _he could’ve just waited in the car, though._ “Oh, so Kita-san hasn’t slaughtered you.”

“Not my physical body, no. My mentality, yes.” He stifles a yawn, “We workin’ already? Thought ya went home to sleep.”

“I can function on less than three hours of sleep a day.”

“Knew it; ya aren’t human.” It’s becoming a habit now – he swings open the door, snatches the hand sanitizer on the passenger’s seat, and then stumbles inside. The interior of the vehicle smells different, though. “Didja change yer air refreshener?” _Lemony – it’s lemons._ “I like it.”

“Purchased one, since you always yap about how it stinks like a hospital in here.”

“Aw, Omi-mon has learned consideration!”

He’s not sure whether Sakusa understands the Pokémon reference when he doesn’t respond. Instead, Sakusa tosses him a flat panel – a window shield. “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you up after two hours.”

“Wuh?”

“Your only worthwhile attribute is that your career performance is passable, and without the stamina to _do_ your work, you’re essentially useless. Therefore, sleep.”

“Ya know, you could also say somethin’ along the lines of, ‘ _hey, ya look tired, why don’t ya get some sweet sleep?’”_

Sakusa’s mask inflates a little as he sighs in exasperation. “Go to sleep, Miya.”

“Okay, okay.” The seat flings backward, and Atsumu slaps the window shield onto the glass. The cozy warmth of heated car, the rustling of plastic as he wiggled for a more comfortable position, the faint fragrance of lemons and alcohol which lingered in the air, and the periodic ‘flick’ of a page being flipped echoing in his eardrums as Sakusa read his book – it’s soothing. “Hey, Omi?” _Flick._ “How’d ya know I like lemons?”

_Probably guessed, what am I thinking._

“… There was a jar of honey lemon lollipops on your dining table.” A jar? Oh, the jar. Atsumu forgot that existed. “There were honeycomb and lemon scents at the store, but the honeycomb one was too strong.”

“Oh.” _It wasn’t a guess, huh._

“Sleep, Miya.”

And he drifts off after that, with one realization in mind:

_He didn’t guess._

_(“Atsumu, wake up, honey!”_

_“Mmph.”_

_“Tsumu, c’mon, ma’s callin’.”_

_“Mmmmppphh.”_

_“Ma, Tsumu’s not wakin’ up!”_

_“Leave ‘im, then! No pancakes for kids who don’t wake up on their own.”_

_Pancakes? He inhaled – the delicious aroma of oranges and lemons, and freshly baked pancakes. Their mother’s homemade pancakes. “Samu, no fair…” Wrapped in his blankets, he rolled out of bed. The sun was too bright – whoever created the sun was stupid. If the sun were a star, it could shine during nighttime, not morning, when Atsumu wanted to sleep. ‘But then the mornin’ wouldn’t be bright, Tsumu,’ retorted Osamu, and Atsumu curtly barked at him to shut his smarty-pants mouth._

_“Atsumu, don’t drag the blankets all around the house, yer gonna dirty ‘em!” It was his mother. An ever-present tinge of citrus clung to her clothes – Atsumu liked it. Maybe it was her shampoo, or because she was always making marmalade jam. “Ah, ah, look at how the stitches are gray! Atsumu, are ya listenin’?”_

_“Want pancakes, ma,” his whining was muffled by the cotton sheets, but his mother understood. He registered her blithe laugh and beige-colored apron._

_The pancakes were tasty. Their pancakes were a little atypical – no maple syrup and butter, but powdered sugar and marmalade jam, with the organic strawberries his mother always bought from this granny downtown. Not that Atsumu knew what ‘organic’ meant, but his mother said it was healthy for them._

_“Are we going to Tokyo Tower today, ma?” Osamu asked next to him, already on his second pancake._

_All drowsiness evaporated at the name of the landmark – Tokyo Tower. “We are?”_

_She hummed, “Maybe, if pa comes back early.”_

_“When is pa comin’?”_

_“Soon, dearie, soon.”_

_“Then we can go, right? Tokyo Tower?”_

_“Sure.” She ruffled his hair. “If ya finish yer pancakes, Atsumu.”_

_He did._

_They didn’t go to Tokyo Tower, though.)_

Sakusa prods him with his gun after two hours. It would’ve been a chilling experience if it weren’t Sakusa.

“I want pancakes,” Atsumu stretches his arms, “let’s have pancakes for breakfast, Omi. It’s still ten.”

“I don’t like pancakes,” Sakusa drops his book into the storage shelf.

“I know this brunch restaurant that makes the best pancakes, c’mon. Ya can even choose yer favorite flavor of jam and toppings of yer preference. They have like a thousand varieties, yer bound to like at least one.”

So, they travel to Atsumu’s brunch place. Atsumu requests for a booth in the corner, where nobody else is around. “Ah, would ya wipe down the table again? Thanks.” He does it for Sakusa, and if the man has noticed, he doesn’t say ‘thank you.’ Not that Atsumu was anticipating one. Atsumu orders buttermilk pancakes with marmalade jam, and Sakusa gets the pancakes with whipped cream and umeboshi. “Pancakes and umeboshi?”

Sakusa removes his mask. “Do you have a problem?”

“Nah,” _umeboshi. He likes umeboshi._ “It suits ya.” Prickly and sour – that’s pretty much Sakusa, but food.

When they’re done, they’re in the car again – Atsumu takes out his phone and opens his chat with Shirabu. “Was gonna transfer the clips to my laptop but it slipped my mind,” Atsumu mumbles apologetically, “this is the first one.”

They vary in length, but the videos are no longer than five minutes each, seventeen total. The images are grainy and some too dark, filmed during the evening. None of them are outstandingly suspicious; they’re just brief moments of the victims walking past, some occasionally pausing at the crossroads. Half past noon, when they finish the last one, Atsumu moans dejectedly. “They’re _fuckin’_ useless.”

His phone is with Sakusa, who is replaying some.

“Maybe we hafta look through all thirty-four houses. Gah, but that’s so tedious, who would –“

“Miya.” Sakusa pipes in, “Let’s go.”

“Hah? Where?”

“Umihara Kanako in the thirteenth video walked out of the bar with a man – that’s when she was last spotted on security cameras. It’s hard to see because most of his body is cut out of the frame.” Atsumu concentrates on the borders of the rectangular screen, and it’s true – a blur, but a man.

“Umihara,” He scoops the name out of his memory, “Oh, the prostitute who worked at… Ba… somethin’.”

“Baracho.”

“Yeah, that.”

Baracho is a bar in the afternoon, a brothel at night, managed by a branch family of Shiratorizawa but situated in Inarizaki. Atsumu hasn’t heard much about it, mainly because he’s not interested in brothels, sexual services, all that – he’s most likely not even straight, although he never contemplated over the issue sincerely. Osamu had declared that he liked men for as long as Atsumu knew, so it wouldn’t be a complete shocker for them to share those traits as well.

Atsumu gags upon viewing the humongous neon red rose poised on the marquee of the building. ‘ _Baracho’_ flashes in hot pink at the center. “I hate neon.” Sakusa seems to share his sentiment of abhorrence, because he’s literally glaring at the sign – _oh, never mind, it’s because there’s a dead pigeon stuck between the petals. Ew._

When they’re in, they’re welcomed by a woman in her forties, scantily dressed and a cigarette between her crimson lips. _The hell, her eyes are green. Who does their makeup green?_ “Hello, gentlemen.” She says, her greeting raspy and smoke escaping her mouth in puffs. “The girls aren’t here until eight, if you’re here for them.”

“Nah, we just want information. Didja know an Umihara Kanako?”

The lady blows out a full cloud. “Ah, Kanako. Yeah. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Atsumu blinks. “Ya know about that?”

“Well, she hasn’t been coming for a while – last week of October, I think. Was a guess, though – she’s actually dead?”

“Somethin’ like that. Ya were close to her?”

“No, I just run this place.” She hands him a card – there’s the number of Baracho on it, along with a name printed in cursive English alphabets – Katsuragi Hana. “Honestly thought she hooked up with that man and fled the city. They had a kid, so.”

Atsumu and Sakusa exchange looks. “Umihara had a kid?”

“Oh, yeah – a son, four years old. He stayed here; she didn’t want to live with him because her clients slept over. Some are aggressive and all, so she didn’t think it was safe.” Katsuragi shrugs, “She had to pay for his expenses- sleeping here, I mean. It’s not free, you know. But then this man visited one day – oh, yeah. It was when she stopped coming. Anyway, he just went to the kid’s room and took him, paid for his stuff too.”

“And ya remember what this man looks like?”

“Mm…” She holds her cigarette between her disturbingly pointy nails. “Rough. Sexy. The type where you just want to ride all night, you know?”

 _Ugh, this is why I hate women like this._ Rough, sexy, ‘the type where you just want to ride all night,’ very informative, yes. “Gotta be more specific than that.”

“Spiky hair? Broad shoulders – he works out, I think. Monolids. Shorter than both of you… 180 centimeters, max. That’s about as specific as it gets.”

“Is he the one Umihara left with her last night,” Sakusa queries monotonously – Atsumu can tell he despises her as much as does. At least they function on the same magnitude for some things.

“What? Oh, nah. That one’s a private client. He was her regular for… two months, maybe. Can’t give you a name though, our rules.”

 _A different guy? You gotta be kidding._ “’kay, that’s all we need.” They stalk out of the bar and slump into the car in sync. Atsumu’s the one to speculate first, “So. She left with a client, disappeared, and then some dude showed up and snatched her kid away? What’s up with that?”

“Could be their strategy. They have a history of kidnapping children, too. It wouldn’t be out of the norm.”

“But then why have two guys do it? Seems like their method is to establish a rapport with their targets as they trick ‘em into buyin’ drugs.”

“Who knows. Can’t you contact that informant from Shiratorizawa to find the footage from the next day?”

“Kenjirou’s off on an assignment with his partner today; told me not to message ‘im. We’ll hafta wait till tomorrow noon, at least.” There’s something about it. Something about the two men – one was a regular. Atsumu presumes that he was her dealer; two months are sufficient to build trust with someone, especially a sex worker who probably had mental health defects from raising a child and her profession. The other man who picked up the kid, though; he’s the one Atsumu doesn’t quite understand. The living expenses of the child couldn’t have been cheap if it accumulated over four years, and that isn’t how the trafficking business works. Why pay that extra money when they could kidnap the child in daylight? “I’ll send ‘im a text for now. With how much I’m askin’, I probably hafta get him lunch or somethin’.”

Sakusa angles his head back, “Inarizaki doesn’t have an informant.”

“Yeah, we buy info. The west doesn’t have many – Shirabu, and the others are all at Nohebi. East has more, or that’s what Samu said. Akaashi Keiji in Fukurodani, Sugawara Koushi in Karasuno, er… and others, can’t recall all of ‘em.”

“Well, I guess we can’t progress until tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah. Wanna split early? I’m yearnin’ for my bed.”

“You just slept.”

“By my definition, that’s a nap.”

Sakusa drives them home.

“And yer gonna be home by what, two?”

“Dunno, don’t wait for me.”

“None of yer business.”

“ _Sleep_ , Samu.” _Wait, I sound like Omi. He’s rubbing off on me, damn._ He ties a ribbon for his sneakers. Sneakers and a suit are not the most fashionable combination, but it’s not like Atsumu’s a model on the runway – he’s going out to kill someone. “I’ll be back when I’m done, so no worries.”

Osamu watches him pack his belongings, which aren’t much, just his gun and phone. “Tsumu,” His brother’s tone is solemn, which catches Atsumu’s attention. The last time Osamu talked like that was ten months ago, and it was when Suna was shot and in the ER. “Can’t ya not go tonight?”

Atsumu swivels around with an addled frown. “Ya talkin’ outta yer ass, Samu? Kita-san –“

“I dreamt of the day pa died,” interjects Osamu.

_(_ _“_ _Then we can go, right? Tokyo Tower?”_

_“Sure. If ya finish yer pancakes, Atsumu.”)_

“The day ma promised us that we were gonna go to Tokyo Tower if ya finished yer pancakes,” Osamu goes on, averting his gaze. “I have a bad feeling.”

Maybe they are twins, after all, if their dreams are connected as well. “Didn’t know ya were superstitious, Samu.”

“Ya know that’s not what I mean –“

“I’ll call ya if somethin’ happens, alright?” He squeezes Osamu’s shoulder reassuringly. They’ve never been too touchy or affectionate, but they care. Atsumu knows that. “I don’t break my promises.”

“Remember that time when ya said ya promised ya wouldn’t steal my cookie and –“

“That was six years ago Samu, let it fuckin’ go.”

“It was treason.”

“Whatever – I hope ya dream of me in bed.”

He moves to his destination by foot and curses his bird brain for abandoning his car at Inarizaki. Despite it only being a week since he’s teamed up with Sakusa, the man’s black Audi and plate number – which he has learned, too, J 15-13 – feels more familiar than his measly Toyota. _He likes umeboshi,_ he chuckles as he reminisces their brunch together, with Sakusa munching on the umeboshi toppings with his bland expression. _I think he enjoyed it, though._ Not that Atsumu can tell the difference, but he wants to believe that Sakusa enjoyed the pancakes.

When he arrives, he crouches behind stack of cardboard boxes. He toys with his gun, spinning it in his hand. It’s not an alley as usual, but a building in the middle of construction – or rather, a deserted construction site. It isn’t an area within Inarizaki’s sphere of control, but closer to the north. _Cold,_ Atsumu shivers, curling into himself. _Should’ve worn a thicker jacket._

Perhaps after forty minutes, or fifty, he heeds the pit-patter of footsteps from a distance. He lowers his stance immediately, twisting his head for a better access of view. There’s a man in a sweater – he can’t see his facial features from where he is, but it’s not like matters.

Another high-pitched voice then squeaks behind the guy, “I can’t pay that much, just put it on my, my tab or _something_ , I’ll give you the cash later, okay? I just miscalculated my spending for the week, you get it, right? Come on, don’t be such a cheapskate…”

Atsumu breathes in. He’s only seen two categories of women while he did these jobs, and they were women who pleaded for more, and women who wanted to be out.

“Well, there’s nothing without the cash, you gotta bring the cash. I’m already making it cheap for you, you should be grateful that I’m…”

He tunes out of the conversation and waits. They argue back and forth, the woman’s volume rising until she’s practically screaming her lungs out for the drugs. Half of Atsumu wishes to bash her head into the nearest metal container to shut her up, but he figures that’s not very productive. He merely desires to get this endeavor over with.

The telltale gasp reverberates throughout the atmosphere seconds later. Atsumu sees her body go limp, the dealer grabbing her under the armpit. He reaches for his gun, zones in on the guy, extends his arm silently and –

_BANG!_

“Fuck, what –“ _Gunfire –_ he swiftly glimpses at the punctured cardboard box next to him. It missed him by an inch.

“Did we get –“ is all Atsumu hears before he shoots one down, then the other shadow that follows.

 _How many?_ This never happened before. He never had more than one. Kita would’ve told him if he had more than one to kill. _Fuck,_ he pants, adrenaline rushing over his body, his grasp on the gun slippery as the heat radiating from it caused his palms to sweat.

“Where is he?”

“He’s one guy, can’t be that hard.”

 _Ten o’ clock direction, left. Five- no, four meters away. Two._ He doesn’t even breathe as he pulls the trigger. The aftershock of the impact makes his wrist quiver. Two bodies collapse to the ground soundlessly. _That was five, not including my target- my target, Jesus Christ – Samu, have to fuckin’ call Samu –_

Three seconds pass when his fingers wrap around the device in his pocket – another half second when a deafening blast pierces his eardrums, and less than a quarter of second when all air is knocked out Atsumu as he doubles over, scorching hot fire bursting in his shoulder. In his periphery, his phone shatters as it skids across the concrete, his screen glaring white as it displayed Osamu’s number in the dark.

_Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-_

He clutches his shoulder and grits his teeth, swallowing a pained grunt.

“Did we get him?”

“Fuck, can’t tell, it’s black and- hey, that a phone?”

 _Gotta bolt,_ fortunately, his gun is within reach. _Shit, that shoulder hurts like a bitch._ He thinks he’d rather have his arm severed than to endure this agony – the wound is burning, and he can feel his blood pooling on the spot where he’s sitting, lukewarm and sticky. The guys approach his phone, and Atsumu struggles to retrieve his revolver in time –

“He’s there, oi –“

_Too late, dumbass._

Two headshots.

The gun clatters to the surface; his hand is shaking. Atsumu spits out the blood in his mouth. _Shit, I’m feeling nauseous._ He has to stay together. His phone’s screen is utterly destroyed, so that isn’t an option. He has to stay together. He didn’t bring his car – damn it, why the hell didn’t he remember to drive his car back home? _Because of Omi,_ his brain supplies, and Atsumu huffs. “Right, ‘twas Omi.”

His hold around his shoulder loosens. _Fuck._ His head droops. _Fuck._ He’s not too certain whether he’d be able to use his left arm anymore. He can’t really see either, and he doesn’t even know if that’s because it’s midnight or because he’s gradually losing consciousness. Probably both. _Seriously, fuck._

He should’ve done what Osamu told him. Stay at home, call Kita, tell him about how they shared a dream and no matter how dumb it seemed, it had to mean something. Something about Atsumu dying, you know.

It’s cold. It’s hot. It hurts.

It hurts.

_(“Sure, if ya finish yer pancakes, Atsumu.”)_

“Not yet, ma,” he whispers, “ya didn’t do shit for me, I don’t wanna see yer stupid face yet.”

Regardless, it is getting darker. He’s fairly sure now that it’s not entirely because it’s midnight.

More than anything, it just really fucking hurts.

“Miya?”

He imagines a black Audi, plate number J 15-13. He even pictures the person driving that ludicrously clean car, with his elaborate antimicrobial seat covers and hand sanitizer – and lemons. Lemon air freshener.

“Miya, can you hear me?”

He thinks about the gloved hands, the surgical mask, and when he takes them off. His nails were always glossy – maybe he files them. Maybe Atsumu will never find out.

“Miya.”

 _Oh._ Atsumu smirks a little, and before he blacks out, he says –

“Ya sound like ‘im, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed that many of you were wondering how exactly is Atsumu "strong" in my fic. He definitely is, but the reason won't be revealed till later. Just keep in mind though, that Atsumu's abilities are already above average as an individual yakuza member. 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos, bookmarks, subscriptions, and comments as usual! You guys really keep me going <3


	6. Tokyo Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: hey so remember how i said i wouldn't update in the next 48 hours  
> Brain: yeah  
> Me: guess what  
> Brain: bruh
> 
> What can I say, promises are meant to be broken, I lost hope for my finals, so why not ignore my problems for a little longer and write about SakuAtsu instead. Great idea. 
> 
> Note: '###' signifies a perspective change, as in the story will temporarily be told in someone else's POV, other than Atsumu's. This chapter is also probably the softest chapter before everything begins to go down, so enjoy the fluff while you're at it!

“What made you think I’d…”

“… just do it, he’s…”

“Yeah, but I mean, weren’t you supposed to…”

“I’ll… care of it…”

 _White. Yellow. Blurry. Warm._ The murmuring resounds throughout his brain – he has no clue where it’s coming from, who’s talking. _Tired. I’m really tired._

_Didn’t know hell had lovely ceilings._

Is what strikes Atsumu when he’s conscious again. It’s an objectively pretty ceiling, with glow-in-the-dark stickers (though it’s currently not dark) and a cute rabbit-shaped ball lamp hooked to a wire attached to it. Baby blue wallpaper, too. Who knew Satan’s preference was baby blue wallpaper? Atsumu believes he’ll get along with him, based on his interior design choices.

The realization that he’s still alive hits when he tries to move, because it turns out to be the worst idea of the century. It’s like someone has crushed a metal hammer over his shoulder thrice, then stomped on it, and burnt it to ashes. Just that his shoulder is there, everything continues to hurt, and it’s an endless cycle of pain. And life is pretty much an endless cycle of pain, so Atsumu concludes that he must be alive.

 _No IV drip, no curtains, no nurse call button –_ he’s not in a hospital. This isn’t his room either, though, and it’s not Osamu’s. He tenses instantaneously – where the heck is he?

The brass knob twists with a ‘creak,’ and Atsumu fumbles for his gun – which isn’t there. _Sweet_.

“Yer finally awake.”

Osamu is standing by the doorway, dressed like he’s at home – T-shirt, drawstring pants, and a towel around his neck. “Samu?”

“Wait a sec, I’ll get Komori-san.”

“Who?”

“The one who patched ya up. Make sure ya say ‘thank you.’” His twin vanishes, and promptly returns with another man – trimmed milk chocolate hair, ovular eyebrows (how the hell did one have ovular eyebrows), and a relieved smile on his face. “Tsumu.”

“Oh, yeah. Thank you. Yer Komori-san?”

“Yeah, that’s me. Komori Motoya, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Komori plops down on an office chair in the corner – now that Atsumu actually has relaxed enough to take in the whole vicinity, it does appear more like someone’s bedroom than anything else. “This is my house, by the way. I took the bullet out of your shoulder.”

 _I mean, maybe you could’ve done something to make it feel a little less like my life span is decreasing by a month every second, but,_ “That’s nice of ya. Uh. So, how did I get here?” The last thing he recalls is panicking over how he might die lonely in a construction site without meeting his brother ever again. Which clearly did not happen.

“Kiyoomi brought you here.”

 _Kiyoomi?_ “Ya mean Omi-kun? _Sakusa_ Kiyoomi?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re cousins.”

“Yer _what_?”

“Cousins,” reiterates Komori, like he’s used to Atsumu’s reaction. “He drove you here because it was closest to where you collapsed. I keep telling him that I’m not a professional, I’m literally just a med school graduate and an _intern_ , but he suddenly threw you on my couch and _demanded_ that I fix you, like –“

“Wait, wait, wait,” _pause, pause, pause, everyone shut the fuck up,_ “you just said Omi _drove_ me here? When I was all bloody and disgusting? Are ya sure we’re talkin’ ‘bout the same person now, or is there another Sakusa Kiyoomi who I don’t know ‘bout yet?”

Komori chortles, “Trust me, I was the most startled one. I’ve never seen Kiyoomi carrying someone on his back – he also showered for three hours afterward, but you get my point.”

“Okay,” Atsumu scratches his scalp, “Can ya just- someone just explain what happened?”

“It wasn’t much, really. Kiyoomi came to my apartment around three days ago – oh, you were out for three days, yeah – with you, saying you had a bullet wound. You lost quite a lot of blood, but it wasn’t fatal; I think the main source of your fatigue was actually mental stress and exhaustion which slowed your rate of recovery. Osamu-kun came a couple hours later because Kiyoomi contacted him.”

“I was gonna drag yer ass back home but didn’t wanna risk it.” Osamu smoothly joins in, “I wasn’t sure if there were still guys aimin’ for ya, and ya would’ve been a liability, dead and shit. I had to message Rin to pack my clothes and stuff; he delivered it here. Oh, Kita-san’s also gettin’ ya a new phone, he found yer old one smashed to bits on the ground at your mission site. He came to see ya every day.”

“Kita-san came to see me every single day?”

His brother smacks him lightly over the head. “’course he did, ya dipshit. If he wasn’t sendin’ ya on those jobs alone and let me go with ya instead then things wouldn’t have –“ Osamu freezes for a sharp intake of breath. “Never mind. He probably had his reasons. Either way, he worries ‘bout ya, ‘course he’d visit.”

“Kiyoomi dropped by once too,” Komori smiles nervously, “he’s been a little busy with his own work too, though. The whole reason he was able to find you was because he was heading north and coincidentally heard a gunshot nearby.”

“North… oh, right.” Itachiyama is located in the north, Atsumu almost let that slip from his mind. “Damn, Omi-kun has pretty awesome timing.”

“Ya fuckin’ bet he does, ya idiot. Ya would’ve been dead if Itachiyama was in the south, not the north,” growls Osamu, but Atsumu sees the wavering of his pupils. “I told ya to fuckin’ call me if somethin’ went to shit, am I a fuckin’ _joke_ to ya, Tsumu?”

“Kinda hard when yer shoulder is punctured, Samu.”

(“ _Samu, can ya hear me? Fuck, Samu- Samu? Answer me ya dumbass –“)_

Atsumu smiles obliquely, punching his twin’s stomach. “’m alive, ya idiot. Serious ain’t an attractive look on ya.”

Osamu’s scowl visibly softens. He punches Atsumu on his uninjured shoulder, grumbling something about informing the others about how he was awake again. Komori follows suit, chirping that Kita usually came around four – which gives Atsumu another twenty minutes to reflect over the incident. He chugs down the glass of water Komori brought for him and shuts his eyes.

 _There were definitely more than five guys. They knew I was gonna be there. They also knew that I’d be there alone – how? Watching me – they must’ve been watching me, this past month. Were they being cautious by not killing me? Why not kill me sooner?_ He’s been doing this for Kita since August. Atsumu alone hadn’t been enough to decrease the kidnapping cases, as evidenced by the thirty-four additional victims in November – _Kita-san must realize that. That means his objective isn’t to stop the kidnappings by having me kill those guys. Then what is his goal?_

_No, more importantly –_

_How does he know who to kill?_

“Atsumu.”

He jerks out from his trance state. None other than Kita Shinsuke is beside him, Atsumu’s favorite packet of fatty tuna sushi in his hand. “Kita-san,” _stop fooling yourself, Miya Atsumu. There’s no way Kita-san is the one._ “Sorry, didn’t think I was gonna be overpowered.”

“No, ya did well. The fact that yer breathin’ is what matters.” The man divides the wooden chopsticks for Atsumu and sets the sushi on his lap. “They were sold out everywhere else, so I had to order some from another district. I hope it can satisfy yer palate.”

“I like all fatty tuna, Kita-san.”

“That’s relieving,” the shateigashira glances at the clock. “Atsumu. I won’t be sendin’ ya on those missions anymore.”

He chokes on his sushi. “ _Wha-_ Kita-san, this was one time, it’s not gonna happen again, I –“

“No, this was on me, Atsumu.” The firmness of Kita’s words shuts him up. “Yer my aide. Yer capable, with or without Osamu. Ya do clean work, Atsumu, I’m proud of ya.” _Oh. Oh, he’s proud of me. Man. Feels kinda amazing._ “I knew killing isn’t yer forte. There were reasons I didn’t have Osamu do ‘em, not because I don’t trust ‘im, but…” Kita’s lips thin.

“Ya don’t need to tell me,” shrugs Atsumu, “we know ya had yer reasons, Kita-san. Ya always do.”

The other blinks, and then nods. “Thank you. Not that it alters the point where I failed as yer superior. I should’ve been more vigilant. Ya should rest a little – have this week off. No, that’s an order, Atsumu, not an option.”

“… Fine. Just ‘cause it’s ya, Kita-san.”

Kita leaves.

###

Kita dials a number when he’s in his office, tapping his foot, his nails clawing at the paperback covers of the books scattered on his desk. One ring, two rings, three, four, five… _he sure takes a long time,_ six… seven-

“ _Shinsuke? How are you faring?”_

“I’m droppin’ Atsumu from the jobs.”

_“Candid as always. What happened?”_

“He was shot. Might’ve died. I’ve only been askin’ him to do these jobs because they were ones he could handle on his own. I can’t guarantee his safety like this; I’m droppin’ ‘im.”

_“Aren’t you being too hasty? He’s alive, isn’t he?”_

“Ya try sayin’ that after one of yer men is on the verge of bleedin’ to death,” Kita responds callously, as he fiddled with Atsumu’s shattered phone. “Atsumu’s not cut out for killing. Despite being aware of that, I pushed him to do take these assignments because ya were insistin’ that it had to be him. And while I agree – Atsumu’s presence is critical to defeat ‘em – I make my own decisions about my subordinates, not ya.” His pistol glints under the sunlight peeking through his blinds. “Even if they die, it’ll be under my command, not yers.”

A round of giggles. “ _You must really like him – them. The Kita Shinsuke I graduated with wouldn’t have said something so irrational.”_

“Not really.”

(He reminisces the spring he stumbled upon the aggregation of cosmic pandemonium in the form of a teenager with ragged clothes and a foul tongue, named Miya Atsumu. He was rooted to the ground, his fists clenched with some kind of indecipherable resolve, his attention glued to the bank ahead of him. Kita, who was walking back to Inarizaki’s headquarters, noticed that instant – _oh, he’s planning to rob that bank. How stupid._ So, he went up to the boy and put it bluntly: “ _I wouldn’t do that if I were ya.”_

Atsumu flitted to him once, “ _Piss off.”_

 _Well, that’s not very polite._ Not that Kita thought he would be – the boy was about to commit a crime; formalities were probably the least of his concerns. Kita would’ve left him like that. The bell for first period was going to ring in forty minutes, and Kita had to organize his locker and conduct his morning cleaning ritual in the bathrooms. But there was something about the kid – the sheer amount of determination, like he actually _believed_ he could rob a bank lined with security guards alone.

And for some reason, Kita was convinced for the briefest moment that he could do it. It was the most illogical thought that had passed his mind in years.

He stepped towards the boy, who snarled at him and lunged to swing his puny fist at Kita. The latter grabbed him by the collar, beat him in the gut, which had the kid coughing and hacking on his shoulder. “ _Let me go –“_

_“Yer gonna steal from a bank when ya can’t even land a proper hit on me?”_

_“I hafta get cash, let the fuck go –“_

Kita didn’t. “ _How much?”_

The kicking and struggling halted. “ _Hah?”_

_“I have around ten thousand in my wallet right now. How much do ya need, is what I’m askin’.”_

A snort arrived in supplant of an expression of gratitude. “ _Like we can survive on ten thousand. We need a ton more than that. I’m not lookin’ to live for a day, we’re gonna live longer than that.”_

_“’We’?”_

“ _My little brother’s gonna die if I don’t get ‘im somethin’ to eat.” Oh._ And Kita wasn’t certain what he thought would be the boy’s purpose. A videogame, maybe. Kids were reckless nowadays; he saw on the news how a middle schooler strangled an underclassman because he wanted the newest model of some smartphone. He didn’t think it would be this, at least. “ _And he’s not dyin’ under my watch, not in the next seventy years. Gonna steal a bunch of cash and run for it.”_

_“Ya wouldn’t be able to.”_

_“Ya dunno that unless ya try,”_ he sneered, “ _besides, maybe they’d feed Samu if I get arrested.”_

 _He’s really going to do it. He’s going to rob that bank._ Kita felt the urge to chuckle. He didn’t. “ _Don’t do it.”_

_“Listen, it’s none of yer –“_

_“Come with me.”_ Kita spoke before his brain could process his suggestion. “ _I’ll make sure yer brother eats.”_

Stunned, the kid asked, “ _What for_?”

He didn’t have an answer for that. “ _What’s yer name? Take me to yer house.”_

_“… Atsumu. Miya Atsumu.”_

_“Well, let’s go, Atsumu.”_ )

“Actually,” Kita corrects himself, his mouth quirking at the memory. “Yer right. I do like ‘em. All the more why I’m not lettin’ ya play with ‘em as ya please, Tooru.”

_“… Fair enough. We’ll discuss this later, then.”_

The line disconnects.

###

Miya Atsumu is persuaded that he will be the sole person on Earth, in _history,_ to die of hyper-extreme monotony, also known as boredom. _Boredom is a noun, it is the state of being bored, but ain’t that dumb? Never understood why dictionaries defined terms with the actual word in it, like, ‘satisfaction’ is the state of being satisfied, like how helpful is that? Talk about inefficiency- see, I’m complainin’ about the dictionary, it doesn’t get any worse than that._

He can’t do much about it. Komori was being paid by Inarizaki to house Atsumu, and Osamu inevitably had to resume his investigations with Suna as well. “ _Yer ain’t gonna go anywhere by yerself,”_ asserted his twin, who was about to tie Atsumu to the bed. Technically, since his legs were fine, he could march out of this room anytime. But it wasn’t smart to loiter around the streets when he was evidently being targeted, especially when he couldn’t fight with his full potential.

In conclusion, he has been strapped to this cursed bed for almost a week now, and Atsumu has reached his limits. He has counted all the wooden panels on the floor, the polka dots on the wallpaper, and he has downloaded the first five hundred free games on Playstore with his new phone. There’s only so many dungeons, characters, and universes that he finds intriguing to toy with for fifty-six consecutive hours, and he’s throwing a tantrum to Osamu the next morning. Osamu hangs up on him, and Atsumu heeds something that resembles Suna too much before he does – like a groan, and not one of those ‘I’m-tired-of-your-idiocy’ ones but ‘I’m-fucking-horny’ ones.

He wonders if Osamu was secretly sexually repressed his whole life before he encountered Suna.

“Bored,” _who’s there to bother? Who have I not bothered for a while- oh, of course._

He whips out his phone again and begins typing.

**_You_ **

_Omi_

_Omi_

_OMI_

_Omiiiiiiii_

_OMI-KUN_

_hi_

_omi_

_omi??_

_Omi dont ignore me_

_i’m dying_

_rly_

_omi_

_omi_

_omi-mon_

_Sakusa_

_Omi_

_:3_

_Omi D:_

**_Omi-kun_ **

_Jesus fucking Christ, Miya._

_Stop._

**_You_ **

_omfg u capitalize stuff and use correct grammar_

_u nerd_

Read.

_hey don’t leave me on read_

_omi_

_omiiii_

**_Omi-kun_ **

_I’m busy, Miya._

**_You_ **

_i have this terrific idea_

_srsly_

_it’s great_

_lets go to tokyo tower together_

_i wanna go_

**_Omi-kun_ **

_I don’t see how this has anything to do with me. Go by yourself._

**_You_ **

_look_

_i would ok_

_but i can’t go on my own_

_both osamu and kita-san are being stupid_

_come on_

_i paid for ur gas_

**_Omi-kun_ **

_You offered to pay my gas._

**_You_ **

_i say a lotta things i don’t mean_

_it’s just tokyo tower_

_come on_

_pls_

_imma die if i stay here any longer_

Sakusa reads his text but doesn’t reply. _Fine,_ he pouts, scrolling up and down his screen at their terse chat history. _Zero sympathy for me._ He slumps over to the bathroom and brushes his teeth, showers with one arm, and changes into undergarments and clothes Osamu brought from home. He’s about to download another five hundred applications when something at the entrance rustles – “Komori-kun?” Atsumu shouts, glad to have some company after forever.

It’s not Komori.

“Omi,” Atsumu marvels, “yer here.” And he’s not in his standard attire either; he’s in a _hoodie,_ Atsumu repeats for the world to listen – _Sakusa Kiyoomi is in a chick-fur-yellow hoodie._ His jeans are black, but that’s not important. Sakusa is in _sunshine yellow,_ now that’s big. “Wow. Yer in color. I feel like I’m watchin’ the evolution of the television, ya know, from black-and-white movies to color –“

“Are you going to Tokyo Tower in that?” Atsumu looks at his boxers. Oh. Well, he was about to get his pants.

“We’re goin’? Really?”

“We might not if you don’t wear something in the next three minutes.”

“Gee, okay, okay –“ Atsumu blasts off to his suitcase and grabs his military cargo pants (he had a phase when he was in high school) and his white ‘I love Osaka’ T-shirt (Osamu thought it’d be funny to wear them in Tokyo). “I thought we weren’t goin’,” He chokes out, scrambling out with his elbow awkwardly stuck in the sleeve – his shoulder isn’t as mobile as he wants it to be yet. Sakusa waits, though. “Ya left me on ‘read.’”

“Some of us have a career to maintain, Miya.” Sakusa states matter-of-factly, “I run back and forth for Inarizaki and Itachiyama. I was in the middle of a pursuit when you texted.”

 _Ya were in the middle of a pursuit and ya answered my texts with accurate grammar, I see._ “Yer a tsundere, Omi-kun, did anyone tell ya that before?”

“I have a gun inside this hoodie.”

“It was a compliment.”

Atsumu pops open the cap of Sakusa’s hand sanitizer. The intense tang of the alcohol is almost uplifting after a week without it; the icy gel that coats his fingers feels like he’s back to his daily routine. The lemon-scented air refreshener is still attached on the side. Atsumu buckles his seatbelt and inhales the smell with a grin. “So, did you catch the guys?”

“Is that a question?” Sakusa shakes his head in exasperation, “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“I heard ya were on yer way to Itachiyama when ya saved me,” it’s a little queer, to say someone “saved” him, but Atsumu goes on. “Thanks. I wasn’t ready to die.”

“I was stuck at a red light when I heard the gunshot,” Sakusa mutters, “it was a coincidence.”

“Yeah.” He ruminated on the subject when he was in bed. Sakusa, who resented sullying his car, who never touched anything without sanitizing it thoroughly, who said that he’d rather burst into flames than pick up rubbish with bare hands – had carried Atsumu to Komori’s, both in his car and on his back. It does things to Atsumu. Not that he wants to label what those things are. “Thanks, either way.”

Sakusa hums.

“And yer cousins with Komori-kun? He’s a normal guy, ain’t he?”

“He’s a cousin on my mother’s side. His family isn’t affiliated with any criminal organizations at all.”

“Heh, it’s impressive that you’re close to him.”

“He just refuses to leave me alone,” sighs Sakusa, “I’ve told him on multiple occasions that he shouldn’t be involved with the yakuza, and Inarizaki is paying him to let you hide there now.”

 _You know, if you interpret that sentence alternately, it could also mean that you’re worried he’d be embroiled in something dangerous._ Atsumu bites his smile away and gazes out the window. “Have ya been to Tokyo Tower when ya were younger?”

“No.”

“Yer from Tokyo, what the heck have ya been doin’?”

“I never thought about it.”

( _“I have an older brother and older sister.”_

_“Oh, cool.”_

_“They’re dead.”_ )

_… Almost forgot about that one. Of course._

They drive quietly. _I was thinking that I got to know him better over these two weeks,_ and perhaps he does. No, he definitely does. He knows that Sakusa Kiyoomi’s siblings are dead. He knows that he’s from Itachiyama, Inarizaki’s branch family. He was born in Asakusa. He knows that he likes umeboshi. He’s a germaphobe. He washes his car once a day at the gas station. He doesn’t seem to like Atsumu much, but he tolerates him. He’s scary, has precise aim, and his deduction skills are top tier. He’s analytical. He’s logical. He has also recently learned consideration.

But there’s also much that he doesn’t know. Like why Sakusa became a yakuza member, why are his siblings dead anyway, is he inherently germophobic, does he like anything other than umeboshi, where does he even live, and what other colors of hoodies does he own? Questions, questions, and more questions, and Atsumu is curious.

_Is that weird?_

“Get out.” Sakusa’s language translated: ‘We’re here.’

Tokyo Tower _towers_ over them (pun intended), glowing red with the evening sunset engulfing its form. There aren’t many people; it’s a weekday, after all. “Let’s race to the observatory.”

“Let’s not.”

They don’t. They board the elevator – it’s a surreal experience, to be honest. Despite inhabiting Tokyo for more than a decade, neither Atsumu nor Osamu has been to Tokyo Tower, and he’s here now, with Sakusa Kiyoomi. Two weeks ago, if someone had told him that Sakusa willingly accompanied him to Tokyo Tower, Atsumu would’ve spat in their face and insulted their lack of humor. Currently, he has a bottle of hand sanitizer in his pockets in case Sakusa needs it (which is pretty meaningless behavior, considering that Sakusa always had gloves on).

The main deck observatory is exactly how the documentaries show it – circular, with some lookdown windows on the floor and the whole structure transparent. The sky is a canvas of shimmering purples and deep oranges, a crescent moon gleaming above them. Tokyo twinkles in a starry puddle of neon and rainbow, crowds crawling between crossroads and buildings like ants. Atsumu massages his shoulder to ease the ache and approaches the windows. Sakusa doesn’t seem as eager but tracks Atsumu’s footsteps.

“Look, Omi,” Atsumu gestures, “that’s the place I was shot!”

Sakusa snorts beneath his mask. “That’s not where people would normally point out.”

“I defy the status quo.”

“I’m sure you do.”

He turns to the metropolis again. _Oh, that’s the area where Samu and I shot twenty-two guys. And that’s the place where I saw Suna bring down a fort. Where’s the building Kita-san told us to set on fire and ended up not doing?_ It’s like venturing a memory lane of his ten years in Inarizaki, roaming Tokyo as a child from Hyogo.

“So?” Sakusa glimpses sideways at him, “is this what you wanted to see?”

“Mm,” He cups his jaw, dazed, “Ya know, when Samu and I were younger, we always chatted about comin’ here. Got real excited, hyped. Saw it on TV, too. It would be on the backdrop for the news, when we were literally in Osaka – like, ain’t that hilarious?” Atsumu waits for the usual, ‘ _do you have a point,’_ or _‘why are you sharing this with me,’_ but it doesn’t come. “But now that I think about it, that wasn’t really the reason why we were so enthralled. Our ma talked about Tokyo often. Said it’s where she met pa. That he proposed to her here, at the top deck. She always made it sound mesmerizin’, like there was nothin’ prettier than the view here.”

Sakusa is wordless, and Atsumu guesses that’s what it is. Until, “What happened?”

He goes rigid at the question. Not because it’s a sensitive topic, but because – _holy shit, did Omi ever ask me something before? Like, a genuine question irrelevant to my follies?_ No, or at least, Atsumu doesn’t remember. “Pa was shot, and ma couldn’t be burdened with her stress and fled. History, ya know? Didn’t blame her, though. She didn’t bring anything for herself. In a way, though she abandoned us, I think that’s how she expressed her love. Samu and I loved her.” He’s never been this open with anyone. Maybe it’s because he knows Sakusa wouldn’t care. _(He remembered the honey lemon lollipops, but you know.)_ “I think we still do; we just don’t talk about it.”

Some couple is acting all chipper next to them, cooing over how beautiful Tokyo’s night is. The boyfriend is all cheesy, adding that his girlfriend is a ton more gorgeous. Atsumu would puke if he weren’t in a good mood himself.

_Huh. Am I in a good mood?_

“I wouldn’t know.”

Atsumu straightens his posture and stares at Sakusa. _I wouldn’t know._ He curls his hand around the bars in front of them. He thinks about the airiness in Sakusa’s voice when he mentioned his dead siblings, the ambiguity, the privacy – and how Atsumu was a little – no, extremely – appalled upon hearing it. Because he understood, but he couldn’t. He had Osamu. He had his mother. _Not a significant loss;_ that wasn’t possible.

But maybe, it really is.

“Baby Omi-kun would’ve been cute. Everyone would’ve probably loved ya,” Sakusa grimaces, and Atsumu snickers. And before further contemplation he says, “I would’ve loved ya.”

Sakusa stares at him. He doesn’t even bat an eyelash. The impact isn’t quite obvious to Atsumu until he allows the phrase to rewind itself in his brain. His palms are sweaty as they slip from the metal bar. “As a baby, I mean.” He clarifies meekly, which has Sakusa avoiding his gaze. _What the fuck did you just do, Miya Atsumu, that was hella awkward if anything, what the fuck were you thinking –_

A laugh.

Atsumu’s river of thoughts and regrets dissipate upon registering the sound. It was short, breathy, and a low rumble, but it was a laugh. It was a _laugh_.

Sakusa Kiyoomi laughed. And it’s not like the one from that night, where Atsumu had called Kuroo. This one’s less guarded, where Atsumu can see the crinkle of his eyes and the illuminated city of Tokyo in Sakusa’s obsidian irises. He has his mask on, and Atsumu wants nothing but to rip it off to see Sakusa’s face. Which, you know, _what the hell._ He has a nice face, but still, _what the hell_.

“You would’ve been the most insufferable toddler ever,” comments Sakusa, and Atsumu has to act natural, like his mind is not simultaneously overwhelming his sanity.

“I was the most adorable baby ever.”

Sakusa disregards his rejoinder. “Are you placated with the view?”

“Hm,” Atsumu scans the landscape once more. “It’s not as pretty as she described, but I guess I’ll come with Samu next time.”

He fights desperately to push away the afterthought of how he prefers the city in Sakusa’s eyes, darker, shinier. It’s stupid. _Stupid_.

They’re back at the ground floor soon, and Atsumu leads Sakusa away from the populous sidewalks and to the deserted izakaya alleys, where it’s too early to have groups of customers. “I know an astounding okonomiyaki diner.” Sakusa remarks on his vast knowledge of Tokyo cuisine and relatively unknown restaurants, to which Atsumu gives credit to his twin. “He loves food.”

It’s perfect because the diner has a jar of pickled umeboshi on every table. Atsumu is afraid that Sakusa is going to empty the whole container before their main dish is served. That doesn’t occur, but Atsumu does request for a refill of the jar anyway.

“How’s your shoulder?”

Atsumu senses the ache return. “Oh, it’s bearable. ‘s not like it’s the first time.”

“I see.” Sakusa doesn’t ask why he was there. Atsumu’s glad because he can’t respond to that.

When they’re done, Atsumu stands to pay for his portions; suddenly, his phone vibrates. It’s a video from Shirabu. _Oh, right, that guy at the bar. I requested the security camera footage._ It was pretty much a week ago.

There’s clip in their chat box and Atsumu decides that he’d watch it later, until a message shows up on the screen. Atsumu blinks at it.

_‘It’s Iwaizumi Hajime. Seijoh’s involved.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand Seijoh enters the picture! I hope you guys liked this chapter, and I always appreciate the kudos, comments, subscriptions, and bookmarks that you guys so generously offer :D 
> 
> (also someone pls tell me to go study for my finals i can't bring myself to do it)
> 
> ++ Did anyone realize that Sakusa's plate number, J 15-13 is also short for Jackals 15-13, which is Atsumu and Sakusa's numbers for MSBY Jackals? Probably not lmao


	7. Seijoh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE HAVE REACHED 100 KUDOS!! (*cue fireworks*) Thank you so much you guys, I'm super grateful for your support, I can't express it with words alone. There have been so many of you being consistently encouraging of this fic over this short span of time, and it's been so motivating!
> 
> I also did study for my finals, so no worries :) I wanted to update this chapter on time because - for reasons I will explain in the end notes. For now, I hope you enjoy the new chapter!

Atsumu’s back on the field after another grueling four days at Komori’s. It’s not like his shoulder is healed, but he protests to Kita that he is physically incapable of living that lifestyle for another twenty-four hours. The shateigashira lifted his restraint with a caution to not overexert himself, which Atsumu acceded without complaint – it’s not like he can overexert himself with a hole in his shoulder.

Oh, but there’s that Seijoh problem.

That Seijoh problem he hasn’t notified Kita about.

“Why not just tell him and get it over with,” Sakusa says plainly, unintrigued by Atsumu’s mental turmoil.

“I mean, I could,” _and should,_ “somethin’ just… bothers me. And besides, I really don’t want anythin’ to do with Seijoh. Kita-san’s warier of Kuroo, but Oikawa always seemed trickier to me.”

There’s nothing special about Oikawa. He’s the epitome of a yakuza success tale – a pipsqueak kid from the slums joining the force, working his way up from the bottom, and eventually seizing the title of second-in-command of one of the most influential families of Tokyo – over the course of his life. While the feat would’ve been acknowledged as extraordinary in other provinces, every shateigashira associated with one of the seven yakuza gangs in Tokyo was from Kita’s generation, all of them twenty-six years old. If anything, the most renowned prodigy was Akaashi Keiji, wakagashira at the age of twenty-five at Fukurodani.

But Oikawa Tooru is intimidating.

“What, did you meet him in person?”

“Yeah,” Atsumu grumbles, the inside of his mouth bitter as he replayed his interaction with Oikawa that day. “When I was twenty or somethin’ – ya remember when that guy died? Ah… oh, the 5th Kumicho of Wakuta Minami.” ‘Ah, yeah,’ Sakusa nods. “We attended his funeral and Seijoh was there too.”

“Right, since Wakuta Minami is a neutral organization.”

“Yeah, so we weren’t like, offended, ya know. But then that guy just shook everyone’s hands and was all amicable, it was revoltin’.” Of course, Osamu and Atsumu steered clear of Oikawa; Atsumu wasn’t compatible personality-wise with guys like him, and Osamu said, ‘his smile is annoyin’.” “’m probably readin’ too much into this, but I don’t want it to be a trap. Heard too many stories about how manipulative he could be.”

“Alright,” Sakusa accepts, “then where are we going next?”

“Ah, I actually wanted to compare some of the evidence we found with other teams. I know Aran-san has compiled some of the reports; ours have been submitted to Kita-san. We might be able to obtain a new lead. If we get nothin’ from that, then I guess I’ll check with Kita-san if we can get access to Seijoh.” An abrupt thought comes to him, “Now that I think ‘bout it, does Itachiyama know anythin’? Yer the only one they delegated to this mission, right?”

Sakusa steps on the gas, “Itachiyama’s a more business-oriented branch family. We have more economic relationships and partners than typical gangs.”

“Heh, but ya were in the middle of a chase the other day.”

“They stole money from our Kumicho.”

“Aha.” Atsumu clucks his tongue, “So yer the only one who fights, is that what it is?”

“You could say that.”

 _Hm,_ well, Atsumu has never witnessed Sakusa in action, but he can infer that Sakusa is talented based on his movements – he didn’t waste energy, he was agile, and he could keep up with Atsumu. Despite his bony appearance, under his suit he’s well-built, and his charisma – _now that’s something else._ He almost wants to spar with Sakusa, but he has the edging feeling that he’d lose. Not because Atsumu is weaker, but because Atsumu’s more tuned for cooperative combat, while Sakusa is obviously acclimated to individual battles. He attempts to imagine how it’d go, and beams to himself; he can see himself in the side mirror of the car.

_Huh._

_Wait._

_Hasn’t that car been there ten minutes ago?_

Plate number A 01-04. A gray Honda. He can’t see the driver or the passenger due to the coated windows. “Omi-kun,” Sakusa eyes him. “Switch lanes. Any direction’s fine.” He does – they smoothly slide from second to third. _One… two… three…_ the Honda mimics their actions. They’re being followed. Sakusa casts a cursory glance at his side mirror and seems to comprehend Atsumu’s implications at once.

“We’re taking a detour,” announces Sakusa, and Atsumu nods curtly. Instead of heading straight ahead, where Inarizaki’s headquarters are, they veer off to the left. The Honda sticks to them.

“They’ve noticed that we’ve figured them out. Go faster.”

Sakusa mutters something about the speed limit and how they’re splat in the center of Tokyo’s main roads under his breath, but the car accelerates anyway. Atsumu buckles his seatbelt and squints at the vehicle. “Omi-kun, are they yer foes? ‘Cause I irritate lots of people, but I haven’t done anythin’ in a while.”

“Your presence is a nuisance, Miya.”

“Yeah, we all know yer actually grateful to have me on this team, but I legitimately don’t recall seein’ a car like that. Crap, ya think they’re my stalkers? Gee, havin’ a pretty face is drainin’, ain’t it?”

Sakusa skillfully ignores him, at this point. “I’m going to take a U-turn and lead them towards the backstreets of Shiratorizawa. Please tell me you have the region memorized.”

“Who do ya take me for? I’m Miya Atsumu.” West Tokyo is within his hands. “We’re gonna corner ‘em first. Pedal that gas, Omi-kun.”

Forty seconds later, they’re bulldozing through Shiratorizawa – _will have to apologize to Ushijima-san through Kenjirou when we’re done –_ Sakusa makes an irked, ‘tsk’ sound when he rapidly rotates the steering wheel, worming past the hordes of people wandering about. _Seriously, he’s one of the best drivers I’ve ever met. Must’ve been a chauffeur or somethin’ in his past life._ “Take a left, then an eight o’ clock at the second three-way intersection. There’ll be a dead end and a space where we can park the car directly to the right. We’ll bait ‘em there.”

Sakusa obeys – a neat left, eight o’ clock, and the car skids into the vacant block with one rough swerve of the handle. Atsumu low-key wants lessons. “I’ll hide on the opposite side.” Atsumu strolls across; Sakusa observes the narrow alley.

A painful screech resonates throughout the atmosphere, and Atsumu grits through his victorious grin at the horrid sound. Sakusa merely raises his gun, ready to aim.

The instant the Honda zooms into sight, Atsumu extends his arm with his middle finger on the trigger. He can see the muzzle of his gun on the steel blue glass window. That soon disappears as the window rolls downward.

“We just want to clarify,” A gravelly voice murmurs, “that we were fully aware that this was a trap. In case you think we actually fell for your plan.” The man has his arms up in surrender – bushy brows, stubble on his chin, curly locks akin to Sakusa’s, but shorter. Atsumu feels like he should know him.

“This is why I didn’t want to fucking do this,” another individual groans from the passenger’s seat. “Can’t even kill them.”

“Come on, Iwaizumi. We are constantly aspiring to achieve world peace, aren’t we?”

 _Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi Hajime._ Atsumu cusses.

“Hey, language.” Thick Eyebrows smirks at Atsumu, like the latter doesn’t have a gun to his temple. “We’re not looking for a fight, pinky promise.”

 _Wow, I don’t like him._ “What’s Seijoh doin’ here?”

“I wonder myself.” Iwaizumi huffs indignantly, “Ask Shittykawa.”

“Geez, Iwaizumi, consider the status of our shateigashira. ‘Shittykawa,’ the disrespect.”

“Shit is shit. He is shit.”

“Look.” Atsumu applies more pressure to the trigger. Thick Eyebrows doesn’t even flinch. “We don’t really have time for this. State why yer in Inarizaki, then get outta here. We have enough crap to get rid of ourselves.”

“Unfortunately, we’re here on our superior’s orders to pick you up. He wants to provide some assistance to Inarizaki. I’m afraid we cannot tell you many details because, well, we don’t know what he wants either.”

Atsumu scoffs at the guy derisively. “Yeah? And ya expect me to say what, ‘sweet, lemme just give that a thought- why not? Wonderful deal’?” His expression hardens. “Don’t joke around with me, trash.”

Thick Eyebrows gazes at him briefly, and then one of his raised hands wraps around the barrel of Atsumu’s gun. “What,” He yanks it right on his forehead, his thumb hovers over Atsumu’s finger on the trigger, and then he pushes on – “ _What the fuck,”_ Atsumu slaps the weapon away from him, inhaling sharply. _He was about to pull the trigger himself, he was serious, just a half-second longer and he would’ve,_ “The _hell_ is with ya?”

The man flashes a lopsided smile. “Oh, it’s true. You don’t like killing, do you?”

“ _Matsukawa,_ don’t be rash.”

“Sorry, sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

 _Something’s wrong in the head, this guy. Who the heck does that, what kind of sane human being,_ “… What do ya want with me?”

“Like we said, we don’t know. Oikawa wants to talk to you, is all.” Matsukawa – was it? Jesus Christ, this Matsukawa was a psycho – turns to Sakusa on Iwaizumi’s side. “We didn’t hear about what to do with him, but he can come with you too.”

Atsumu suppresses a frustrated scream. He _doesn’t_ want to be there, and he promised Kita less than a month ago that he wouldn’t do anything in hiding. He abhors Oikawa for inexplicable reasons. Why him, anyway? But the video footage of Iwaizumi and the child haunts his mind as well, and in truth, he knows it has been bugging him since Shirabu’s message. He taps his head with his gun, brooding.

“Just saying,” Iwaizumi suddenly butts in, “if you’re fussing over what Kita might think, he’ll be okay with this one.”

“Hah? How –“

“Shittykawa will explain that too. Now, are we going or not?”

Bewildered, Atsumu gapes a little, but snaps his mouth shut. “Fine, but we’re not ridin’ yer car.”

“What?”

“There’s no way Omi-kun’s gonna ride that car.” Atsumu confirms, “right, Omi? There’s a crumpled tissue paper here; I think it has gum in it.”

“Don’t.” Sakusa winces, like the words themselves are pure torture.

Matsukawa shrugs. “Alright, we’ll do that. Let me move our car to the side then.” He does that, and then they clamber out. Atsumu tosses his bottle of hand sanitizer towards them. ‘We’re really supposed to do this,’ reads Iwaizumi’s seemingly fixed scowl, and Atsumu shoots back a, ‘what do ya think,’ glare.

“Holy shit.” Iwaizumi whistles when he sits in the back, “these real anti… what? They’re anti something.”

“Antimicrobial, Iwaizumi, don’t make it so easy for them to guess that you failed middle school sciences.”

“Don’t move around,” Sakusa hisses, clinging to the steering wheel almost desperately. “Please.” Atsumu is sympathetic for him – he rummages through the cabinet for that alcohol spray and sprays it at the back.

“The hell,” Iwaizumi coughs and wheezes, “You can’t just fucking spray that shit in our faces –“

“Sorry, Omi-kun doesn’t like germs.” He’s not really sorry at all, but you know, for the effect.

“It’s kind of pleasant, actually. It’s like you’re at the hospital’s waiting rooms,” chuckles Matsukawa, “I wish Hiro actually did his own laundry for once. He wore that shirt with the ketchup stain for two weeks before.”

“Ya know, an introduction would be nice.”

“I mean, you were the one who pointed a gun at us, but sure. I’m Matsukawa Issei, the rational one. This is Iwaizumi Hajime, the angry one. He might seem evil and all, but it’s just his face, I swear.”

“Matsukawa, shut the fuck up.”

“He really loves me, as you can tell.”

Atsumu is dubious that these two are Oikawa Tooru’s infamous aides. “I’m Miya Atsumu. This guy’s Sakusa Kiyoomi. He’s a salted pickle, but he grows on ya.”

“I would shoot you if I weren’t driving, Miya.”

“He means, ‘yeah, nice to meet ya too.’”

“I see, you share the destiny of the translator.” Matsukawa nods solemnly, and Atsumu snorts. He doesn’t like the dude, but he can be humorous. “Ah, there’s a shortcut if you curve to the street at eleven o’ clock, where that red motorbike is going. Right.”

They’re trickling into east Tokyo, and Atsumu doesn’t know how to feel about it. Sure, he’s been there more than he count, but it was often with Aran, Kita, other superiors, for strictly ceremonial occasions. There were those ostentatious yakuza meetings held annually at some inn at Mount Fuji, or traditional New Year’s festivals where they were required to gather in one setting. This isn’t one of those.

“You really don’t have to be so anxious.” Iwaizumi said gruffly. ‘’M not,’ Atsumu utters back. “I never got why the western gangs have such a grudge against the east, but we act upon reason.” Pause. “Actually, half of us do. Doesn’t really pertain to Karasuno and Fukurodani because they’re spontaneous shits.”

“How promisin’.”

“At least,” intercepts Matsukawa, “Oikawa isn’t like that. You don’t have to behave as if we’re going to disassemble your body with a chainsaw.”

“Kita-san taught us to never lower our guards, ya see. It’s out of habit.”

“Of course he did,” Iwaizumi puts one his ankle over his knee. “Some things never change.”

The familiarity is unsettling for Atsumu. Kita had never mentioned Oikawa or Iwaizumi to them in his life. Not that Kita ever disclosed much about himself, but – Oikawa and Iwaizumi? That’s huge, isn’t it? Especially for Kita, who’s associated with the west and is one of Inarizaki’s core members. ‘How the hell do ya know ‘im,’ lies on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows the query. He doesn’t want to hear it – not from someone else.

“You can stop around there; you see the Seven-Eleven? Yeah. ‘S fine, nobody’s going to touch your car – the people around here know we’re yakuza.”

Atsumu unfastens his belt, “Isn’t it standard to keep undercover?”

“Yeah, but Oikawa’s bribed at least a fifth of the cops in our area. We have more dirt on them than they have on us, so.”

Oikawa Tooru – Atsumu just _knows_ they won’t get along. “Omi-kun, I don’t wanna,” he whines inaudibly, but Sakusa heeds him.

“You shouldn’t have come, then.”

“How could I _not?_ Wasn’t even a choice, don’t ya think?”

“Quit yammering if you’re aware.”

Atsumu pats his pockets and blinks, “Agh, left my phone in the car.”

Sakusa’s keys jingle, “You can go get them.”

“Nah, they’d contact ya too if somethin’ important comes up.” _Kita-san isn’t sending me on those jobs anymore either, should be fine._ Sakusa shrugs and they walk alongside each other behind Iwaizumi and Matsukawa. It’s his grand, momentous first entry to Seijoh’s headquarters. The exterior is quite dull, actually – an ordinary department building. The lobby has a few potted bonsai trees and sheathed katanas on display, ones that have been wielded by past Kumichos. There’s a shelf with bottles of sake as well, the production dates inked on the paper labels – the oldest one is from 1903. _Ah, right._ Seijoh is one of the more primitive gangs in the yakuza era, while Inarizaki is relatively new. There are at least two generation gaps between the list of Kumichos.

“Oh, hey.”

Atsumu snaps at the newcomer – a disheveled man with an unkempt suit – _did he accidentally trip in cotton candy or is that his natural hair color?_ Sakusa bristles, and Atsumu can bet on Osamu’s lunch that it’s due to the muddy splotch on the man’s shirt.

“Hanamaki,” Iwaizumi heaves a sigh, “how many times did I fucking tell you to wear something else?”

“Hoh? Who’s the one who _accidentally_ rammed a cop’s skull into the pavement five days ago?”

“I had a valid –“

“ _Regardless,_ who’s the person who has to clean up after all the nonsensical shit afterward to avoid having anyone’s ass landed in jail?”

“You, but –“

“You better zip your mouth if you don’t want two years squandered behind bars, Iwaizumi.” Iwaizumi purses his lips. Pink Guy grins and waves at Atsumu and Sakusa. “You guys must be Oikawa’s guests. He’s not here right now, that’s what I came to tell you. He’ll be back in a few, so you can wait in his study. Ah, I’m Hanamaki Takahiro, Seijoh’s lawyer. I’m overworked and underpaid, please sue my boss for me.”

“That’s counterproductive; you’ll be his lawyer, Hiro.” Matsukawa slings an arm around Hanamaki’s shoulders. “Iwaizumi, I’m finished for the day, aren’t I? I’m leaving now.” Something about the pair exudes an aura which Atsumu has experienced – _where did I –_

_(Kuroo fixes Kenma’s tangled cowlicks and brushes a thumb over the bruises dotting his face. It’s oddly intimate.)_

_Is everyone an item in the east, or what?_

Iwaizumi swats at them dismissively, “Yeah, yeah. Don’t fuck in the supplies closet.”

“Busted.”

 _Nekoma’s grandson and Nekoma’s shateigashira, Oikawa’s aide and lawyer, and then what, this Iwaizumi guy and Oikawa next?_ “What do ya think, Omi-kun?”

“He was the embodiment of a hygiene disaster.”

“Not what I meant, but okay.”

Iwaizumi guides them to the twenty-fifth floor, which is apparently dedicated to Oikawa – his personal study, his room, a recreational gym – _talk about entitled._ The second they file out of the elevator, a humongous portrait of Oikawa in a classic yukata welcomes them. Sakusa doesn’t react, and Atsumu passes on a ‘are-you-for-real’ look to Iwaizumi, who simply answers, “I know what you’re thinking, and I wholeheartedly agree with you, but we aren’t going to talk about it.”

In contrast to his gaudy portrait by the lift, Oikawa’s study is rather commonplace, with a desk and bookshelves around. Some portfolios are jumbled on the carpet, and Iwaizumi picks them up and organizes them into a neat stack. “He’ll be here in five if he doesn’t get sidetracked, which he will. So, realistically he’ll get here in twenty. Don’t trust me on that, though, because if there’s one thing Oikawa isn’t, it’s punctual.”

“And yer tellin’ me Kita-san _interacts_ with ‘im?” He distinctly remembers Kita scolding the twins about their propensity to be tardy for three hours. Atsumu protested that he couldn’t do much if was unable to wake up.

“Oh, yeah. Kita despised him. When they fought once, they wouldn’t reconcile for nearly a month.”

“Heh,” that piques his interest, but he doesn’t fish for more details. _Kita-san will tell when he feels comfortable._ He rubs the tips of his nails. Ten minutes flow by quietly, Iwaizumi often frowning at his phone and typing with much ferocity. Atsumu squirts a bit of sanitizer over his hands to appease his boredom.

Another eight minutes later, the ding of the elevator echoes from the hall, as well as an obnoxious humming tune, strangely gleeful and upbeat. “Hello, everyone!” Oikawa Tooru dances into his study – his ‘hello’ is exclaimed in English. “Sorry, sorry. I bumped into Kunimi-chan at Lawson’s and he was purchasing the last milk bread, like, can you believe that? It’s God’s will for this Oikawa-san to eat that milk bread, and from my own subordinate, this anguish of betrayal, can you –“

“Shittykawa.”

“I love you too, Iwa-chan,” _Iwa-chan, what the actual hell,_ “Oh, and Atsumu-chan, thanks for responding to my selfish request! And…” Oikawa tilts his head at Sakusa. “Hm, you must be the partner. I only have to discuss matters with Atsumu-chan, though, so I’d appreciate it if you wait outside.”

 _Atsumu-chan._ Miya Atsumu has now been breathing for more than nine thousand one hundred and twenty-five days, and absolutely no one has addressed him as ‘Atsumu-chan.’ “ _Omi_ ,” Atsumu hisses in alarm, “I don’t think I can mentally cope with ‘im, ya can’t just leave me alone.”

“Well, I’m not wanted, Miya. Good luck.”

_Oh my god._

“Take a seat and make yourself at home,” Oikawa pulls out his chair and puts a can of sweetened instant coffee in front of Atsumu once Iwaizumi and Sakusa exit the study. “Sorry, we don’t have tea, if that’s your preference. It’s rare that I invite guests directly into my office.”

“I’m special, then,” drawls Atsumu, the can untouched.

“Indeed, you are.” _His smile creeps me out._ “How much do you know?”

“That’s an extremely broad question.”

“I think we both know that you’re brighter than that, Atsumu.” The dropped prefix matches the graver, hooded look painting Oikawa’s face, though his smile is intact. “You found the footage of Hajime walking out with the kid. Don’t you want an explanation?” Atsumu freezes. “Oh, how’d I know? I have people planted around Inarizaki, so. It was a guess.”

 _Seijoh in Inarizaki? How- no. That can come later._ “Go on.”

“I’m sure you’ve discovered that identical kidnapping cases are sprouting about parts of east Tokyo as well.” Oikawa leans back, “They haven’t been as prevalent in Seijoh, but there was a spike in Nekoma’s missing persons these past three months as well. We connected them to the drug rings, and ever since, Seijoh has been struggling to track down the designated dealers throughout the city. But finding them after it happens isn’t effective, so we’ve been communicating with prospective victims – adolescent girls to middle-aged women, typically orphaned, unwed, with unrecognized occupations or unstable sources of income, and consequently no honorable social standing. Umihara Kanako was one of the victims we kept an eye on.” He props his elbow on his armrest. “We weren’t her bodyguards or anything like that, but we did become acquainted personally – thanks to her, we attained a sample of the drug and information about her dealer. She proposed a deal, though, and that was to protect her kid lest an unfavorable circumstance befell on her.”

Atsumu let out a strained chuckle. “And yer tellin’ me to believe that.”

“Three weeks ago, you should’ve shot a man in Inarizaki’s 8-chome back alley.”

( _“Work’s done, Kita-san.” Atsumu glances down at the body. One shot through the temple, clean and precise. He’s dead. “Got the man.”_

_“Excellent. Can ya identify ‘im?”_

_The lollipop rolls around on his tongue. “Nah, no clue. Not a familiar face, no tattoo, nothin’. Seems like yer right, though – their methods are unruly. Nobody from the west does shit like this – ya think it’s the east? Karasuno… or Fukurodani?_ ”)

A droplet of cold sweat wets Atsumu’s collar. Oikawa grins knowingly. “Have you ever wondered how Shinsuke assigned targets accurately to you every day? How he acquired the locations? You’re smarter than you’d like to admit, Atsumu – you can’t seriously tell me that you haven’t realized. There wasn’t anyone in Inarizaki who had a clue about the disappearances before November, and yet you have been shooting dealers since August.”

Atsumu shudders. “Listen –“

“Kita and I, we’ve been –“

“I said _listen,_ you fuckin’ dipshit.” Oikawa blinks at his outburst. His heart is racing. Blooding is pumping to his head. “Yer not the person I’m gonna hear this from. I don’t need details about the relationship ya have with Kita-san; he’ll tell me when he has to.”

“Do you really think so?”

“If he doesn’t tell me,” He’s with Kita. The day he saw a blue and purple Kita on the ground of Inarizaki’s storage rooms – the week prior, how he stroked the scar on Atsumu’s forehead and whispered, ‘ _I’ll be back, Atsumu,’_ before stepping into the Kumicho’s office – Atsumu vowed to stay with Kita. There is no one else to serve. “Then nobody else will.”

An amused chortle, “Man, I’m envious. Shinsuke has such loyal men.” He crosses his legs. “Fair enough, I won’t say anything about him, then. But personally, I do want you to convince Shinsuke that you continue doing those jobs. You’re key to the beginning of ending this dreadful chain of unsolicited crime in Tokyo.”

“… Why?”

“It’s a hunch, to be perfectly candid.” Oikawa flicks at him, “You don’t know why you’re one of the most feared yakuza members of this generation, do you?”

“What?”

“Thought so. I mean,” smirks Oikawa, “That’s what makes it scarier, but you know.”

“Do ya talk in riddles all the time?”

“It’s not intentional. Well, please do think over mentioning the topic to Shinsuke. He’s aware of what you’re capable of, too.” Atsumu gradually rises from the sofa, and so does Oikawa. “Iwa-chan will escort you to the lobby again. I hope we meet soon, Atsumu-chan.”

Atsumu grumbles, “I sincerely hope we don’t.”

###

“What’s so great about him?”

“Hm?”

“You know what I mean,” Iwaizumi lights his cigarette. Oikawa watches Sakusa’s Black Audi drive away from the balcony of his study. “Miya Atsumu. He _is_ a formidable opponent. That’s not a unique characteristic, though.”

Oikawa sniffs the smoke. “Man, you’re dense, Iwa-chan. Don’t you ever gossip?” ‘No.’ “Ugh. Do you remember how one yakuza gang in the west was exterminated overnight six years ago? The name was… ah, Kasai.”

“Yeah. What about them?”

“Miya Atsumu was the one who crushed them. In less than five hours, at the age of nineteen.”

Iwaizumi gasps on a cloud of smoke that burns his windpipe. “The fuck, but Inarizaki was the one that publicly –“

“Publicly, yeah, it was Inarizaki who defeated them. But that brawl wasn’t even supposed to happen that night.” Oikawa drinks the can of sugary coffee he originally bought for Atsumu. “Miya Atsumu is already above average compared to most yakuza members in Tokyo. It’s two of his assets which set him apart. One is his ability to spatially visualize – he can absorb his surroundings and analyze distance, predict trajectories of objects, and furthermore, he stores that data in his brain subconsciously.”

“Oh. Like Kageyama, then.”

“Nah, in terms of that aspect alone, Tobio-chan is more accomplished. That brat’s a prodigy.”

“Huh. Then his other strength?”

“His other strength is…”

###

“I’m not comin’ here ever again.”

Sakusa scrunches his nose. “Please, I tagged along for nothing.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry ‘bout that.” Past the transparent layer of the window, Atsumu sees his phone turned on – the screen flickers with an updated pop-up.

[ _1 missed call from Samu_ ]

[ _6 missed calls from Sunarin_ ]

A chill rushes down his spine. He swings open the door frantically – Sakusa admonishes him about being careful, but that’s not his priority, not right now. His finger swipes over Osamu’s name. He doesn’t pick up.

“Miya?”

 _Sunarin, Sunarin, Sunarin…_ he gnaws on the cuticle of his thumb.

“Miya, what –“

There’s rustling on the other side of the speaker. “Sunarin?”

No response. “Sunarin, ya there? What the fuck is wrong? Got a missed call from Samu and he isn’t –“

“ _Atsumu.”_

Atsumu clings to his phone. _No. Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t._

_“I’m sorry.”_

Suna doesn’t apologize. Not unwarranted.

“ _Osamu was –“_

_(“Tsumu, can’t ya not go tonight?”_

_“I’ll call ya if somethin’ happens, alright? I never break my promises.”)_

Atsumu sees white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, they're twins, so when one thing happens to one of them... 
> 
> Anyway, the reason this update is on time is because there is no plot progression in the next chapter. What I mean is, the chapter will function to tell the story in a different perspective (not Atsumu's, and no, unfortunately not Sakusa's) for the sake of developing character relationships. The hardest thing about this fic is that ALL the characters have specific backstories (yes, even every single member of the gangs which aren't even mentioned yet, and also Shiratorizawa, Nohebi, Seijoh, Nekoma, etc.) but I can't tell you about them because some just AREN'T relevant. 
> 
> But, well, as some of you might've guessed, the next chapter is the story of OsaSuna - again, no plot progression, so you won't know what happened to Osamu till chapter 9. 
> 
> ++ I hope Oikawa's scene provided some hints about Atsumu's possible strength (yes he has 2 because Atsumu is Atsumu)!


	8. Suna Rintarou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, this was my favorite chapter to write so far. I have a lot I want to talk about regarding their relationship, so please read the chapter and then the end notes (if you want to read a long analysis and ramble from me). Enjoy!

_Since you’re alive, you live, and because you live, you’re alive._

Suna Rintarou was an individual of simplicity. He disliked philosophical questions. What was the ultimate point of meditating over topics that didn’t have definite answers? If thousands and millions of people – if those prominent philosophers and mathematicians from Greece, Rome, China – couldn’t propose a solution, then there was absolutely no way he could. _What’s the purpose of life? Living, I guess. Who created this universe? Well, that’s none of my business, right? It’s not like I’m going to be breathing when the apocalypse comes._

_Why do humans fear death?_

He fundamentally couldn’t comprehend that question.

Because – Suna Rintarou didn’t fear death.

Fear, Suna believed, was a consequence of possession. Possession of things, people, and-or places, of value. Rich entrepreneurs and businessmen didn’t want to die because of their greed and wealth, soldiers didn’t want to die because they had a family to return to, and mothers didn’t want to die because they had a child to protect. That attachment, that ownership, formed a connection between life and death.

Then, naturally, Suna Rintarou – who was not affluent, not loving nor loved – had no reason to fear death. So, he didn’t. That didn’t mean he was willing to jump off the roof anytime – as aforementioned, because he was alive, he lived. It was also inconsequential to put an end to your life when it wasn’t necessary, or at least, that’s what he thought.

“Rintarou,” His teacher handed him a box of juice. “Have you thought of what to do?”

“I’ll find a school with a dorm and leave.” He pierced the foil with the straw and proceeded to tie his shoelaces. “There’s too many of us for this orphanage to manage, anyway.”

Sawada Ayumi, the Head caretaker and teacher, nibbled on her bottom lip. “Sorry, we really shouldn’t… I mean, I was serious when I said you could stay until you turn eighteen, Rintarou. You’re only fifteen now; I’m sure three years –“

“It’s fine. I’ll leave, sensei. Someone’s funding my high school tuition anyway, right?”

“Yes, but –“

“Then I’m good. I’ll go on a job search during break or something to save up. Bye,” He hopped out to the gate; Ayumi was probably making that disappointed face, and he didn’t want to see it. It’s not like it was her fault, and it also wasn’t like Suna _didn’t_ want to leave. He was an orphan either way.

He’s not sure who his parents were. The Head caretaker before Ayumi had found him by the doorstep of the orphanage when he was barely three months old, estimated. The day he was taken in became his birthday, and ‘Suna’ was the only character scribbled on the note that was tucked beneath him. ‘Rintarou’ was just some name the teachers gave him. They still joked over whether ‘Suna’ was his surname or first name – not that he cared.

He didn’t blame his mother – or father – who ditched him. They were only human. He might’ve been a mistake, probably was, and people made mistakes. Maybe she was a teenager and didn’t want to take responsibility, maybe she loathed toddlers, who knew? He didn’t want to hate someone that didn’t matter anymore – him, his mother, his father – genetically related, but all human. Only human.

It was on one of those days. A sunny morning in May, where his body was being assaulted by the sweltering summer heat, where his throat was scratchy and arid, where even the most minor disturbance, like the tittering cicadas, put him on edge.

It was on one those days, when he met Miya Osamu.

There was a convenience store by the cross section between Suna’s middle school and the shortcut to downtown. Not a franchise but a store run by some old man who seemed to have the time and money to waste. Suna liked the frozen pudding the store sold in limited numbers – a pudding which was an amalgamation of fifteen melted fruit jellies solidified. That morning, he visited the store to purchase the pudding, when he saw a boy around his age mumbling to himself, crouching by the street.

 _Must be insane,_ he presumed, _this kind of heat would make people go mad._

When he paid for his pudding and walked out, the boy was no longer there. Suna examined the street, where the boy was crouching, and, “Oh.” There was a cat. A tabby cat – a stray – licking a can of tuna. The feline flickered at him and escaped. _He was feeding the cat._

And that was that. He didn’t really pay much attention – it was just some stranger feeding a cat.

But then, maybe it was the timing Suna left from the orphanage, or the guy’s routine; they always crossed paths at the store. Suna went in for pudding, and the boy would be there with his can of tuna and the tabby. When Suna was out, he wasn’t there.

Summer transitioned into autumn, a season where Suna didn’t have to survive off frozen pudding in the mornings. He could get to class twenty minutes early and take a nap.

He didn’t, though.

September 1st, four months after their initial encounter, Suna talked to Osamu.

“What’s her name?” He inquired, without much thought, no ulterior motive. Perhaps he subconsciously treated it as bizarre, for someone to feed a stray cat so consistently with no reward, but at least when he asked, he wasn’t thinking of such things. “The tabby.”

“Eh? Oh,” The boy blinked at him, “Rin.”

 _Rin._ “Really.”

“I mean,” he shrugged, “it might be somethin’ else. Rin’s easy, so that’s what I named her.” _Kansai dialect. He’s not from Tokyo, is he?_ “Ain’t ya buyin’ yer pudding today?”

“No, it’s not hot anymore.” _And he’s been watching – not that I can be crept out, I’ve been doing the same._

“Wasn’t really hot to begin with. Ya Tokyo folks really can’t bear with the sun, can ya?”

“I suppose we can’t all be superhuman.”

“S’pose not.” And with that, he strolled away, and Suna went to school. It was only during third period when Suna’s mind wandered to the cat feeder, _huh, I didn’t ask for his name, did I? Only the cat._

The next morning, when Suna stopped beside him, the guy abruptly blurted out, “’m Miya Osamu.” Suna stood there, a little stunned. “Forgot to tell ya yesterday. ‘s been a while since I conversed with peeps my age.”

 _I guess he’s not a student, then._ Suna did realize how Osamu didn’t wear a uniform. “I’m Suna Rintarou.”

“Rintarou?” Osamu beamed, “that’s basically Rin, ain’t it? Might as well call ya Rin.”

Suna’s brows furrowed. “Don’t call me that.”

“What, ‘s fine, ain’t it? Ya can call me Osamu too. Miya’s a little weird anyway – I got a twin. Ya kinda look like Rin, too.” Suna sighed and lowered himself to the pavement as well to stroke the cat. He didn’t believe he resembled the tabby cat, but he never had much of an opinion on his face. Maybe Osamu was correct. “How old are ya? I’m gonna feel kinda bad if yer actually older than me.”

“Fifteen.”

“Nice, me too.”

That’s all they chatted about before parting ways again. The coincidence eventually evolved into a pattern, where Suna would watch Osamu feed the cat, they’d exchange a couple words, and then go about their lives.

And then in winter, mid-December, Rin was hit by a motorbike.

Osamu was cradling her in his arms, his expression grim, her corpse rigid. Suna’s eyes widened at the scene. “What happened?”

Osamu caressed her whiskers. “… Some delivery dude killed her. I saw ‘im. He bolted. Asshole.” His fingertips were quaking, and Suna knew it wasn’t because of the frosty weather. Osamu didn’t appear like he was going to let her go. _It’s a Friday,_ Suna glanced at his algebra textbook. _Not like anyone cares about whether the kid without parents misses first period._

“Let’s go bury her.”

“Huh?”

“There’s a valley next to the public park by the city square,” Suna gestured at him, “we can bury her there. Come on.” Albeit with uncertainty, Osamu followed him. They valley was a twenty-minute walk from the store. Suna couldn’t quite remember how he discovered the area. He detected a hole in the park’s fences when he was younger – maybe that was it.

With the scissors in Suna’s pencil case and their bare hands, they unraveled the soil and buried Rin. Osamu placed the can of unopened tuna on her grave as an offering. They sat side by side on the grass for a while, before Osamu mumbled, “Don’t ya have school?”

“Nobody would notice even if I didn’t go.” Suna replied, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Technically don’t hafta be there by noon.” Osamu didn’t state where. Suna nodded.

After minutes of plucking at blades of grass on the ground, Suna asked, “Why did you feed Rin?” Osamu turned to him. “Seems like a chore.”

“Hm,” The other hummed, not denying Suna’s comment. “She was really thin when I picked her up in April. No fat, only bones. I guess it reminded me of,” Osamu flopped back on the snowy surface, gazing at the sky. “’Cause, I almost starved to death last year.”

Suna must’ve given him a skeptical look because Osamu laughed.

“No, really. I was extremely malnourished – I weighed thirty-eight kilos when I was one-seventy. Couldn’t even stand. I think I was unconscious most of the time, not really sleepin’. There’s a difference, ya know.” Osamu outstretched his palm into the air. Suna attempted to envision Osamu’s bony figure. “Took me ‘round two months and a half to fully recover. Our parents died years ago- well, our pa did, and our ma left us some cash and a house, but like, we didn’t know how to finance and shit. Didn’t know about sales, how to pay for bills, and eventually we were out. Tsumu was always healthier than me with his freaky stamina, but it’s not like bein’ healthy gets you a source of income; people don’t really trust homeless middle schoolers with anythin’.”

Suna stared. He wasn’t aware of it, but he was once Osamu smirked and said, “What, ya pityin’ me, Rin?” There was no malice in Osamu’s tone. He was mocking Suna.

 _But_ , “No.” Suna didn’t look away. “My parents tossed me in front of an orphanage when I was born.”

Osamu’s smirk dissolved into a frown. It was Suna’s turn. “What, are you pitying me, Osamu?”

“Hell nah,” Osamu chuckled. “We match, Rin.”

It felt as if the string which connected them had been tied into a knot. It was smoother after that, with Suna telling Osamu about the origins of his name, and Osamu sharing more about his ‘idiotic twin,’ Miya Atsumu. There were topics they didn’t breach, such as where they lived, why Osamu didn’t attend school, etc., but they kept their boundaries. No – they _respected_ those boundaries.

Another season flew by like that, and Suna had to leave his home of sixteen years.

However, that also meant his new route to school didn’t include the cross section. And no cross section meant no mornings with Osamu. He could’ve left it like that – moving away without notice. But that didn’t seem _right,_ and although Suna was never the type of person to ponder over such matters, he found himself doing just that.

“I can’t come here anymore.” He told Osamu a week in advance. A week seemed sufficient _. Sufficient for what, though?_

Osamu swallowed the chunk of his chocolate popsicle rapidly. “Why?”

“I’m moving out – attending a school with a dorm next summer. I won’t have to… come here.” His heart pounded while uttering that sentence. He was – apprehensive. _But of what_?

“Huh,” sucking on his popsicle, Osamu went on, “where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“The school, dumbass.”

“Oh, uh. Higashi high school.”

“Alright.”

Osamu didn’t say anything after that, not even on their last day together at the store. The weekend rolled in, and Suna packed his belongings, bid his fellow roommates and Ayumi farewell, and organized his new bedroom and wardrobe at the dorm. He didn’t meet Osamu over summer break. He missed the artificial sweet taste of the old man’s fruit jelly pudding. In the corner of his mind, he regretted not asking Osamu whether he had a phone.

June and July crawled by at an excruciatingly slow pace, until the semester commenced.

And when Suna exited his dorm and headed to the school’s main entrance, there was Osamu – clearly not a student with his baggy jeans and plain tee – sitting on the bench with a plastic bag next to him. “Osamu?”

“Ah, Rin,” Osamu smiled lazily, “ya know, we’re both kinda stupid. Should’ve just asked for yer number, but I went around askin’ when Higashi high school’s semester began. Felt like an idiot for two straight months.”

Suna snorted at that. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.” They traded numbers like that. Osamu reached into the bag and hurled an object at Suna – fruit jelly pudding. It was slippery from condensation, but otherwise cold. “Do you have an inclination to feed everyone you see?”

Osamu huffed. “Just Rin.”

“I’m not Rin.”

“You’re Rin, too.”

 _I guess._ “Thanks.”

“Buy me lunch next time.”

Their pattern is reconstructed, and although it’s a bit altered – Osamu with a fruit jelly pudding on morning weekdays, and Suna buying them lunch on Saturday afternoons – it developed into an indisputable, sort of natural rhythm, which both of them cascaded along.

That same year, November, Osamu kissed Suna.

It wasn’t _because_ of anything, really. It wasn’t an emotional or sexual moment. They were eating ice cream, there were remnants of melted strawberry on Suna’s lips, and Osamu closed the space between them, just like that.

Suna wasn’t startled, wasn’t affronted – just humored. “What was that for?”

“Felt like an offense to the melted ice cream.” Then, “what, that yer first kiss?”

 _Huh._ “Yeah.”

Osamu bristled. “Oh. Huh,” He rubbed the back of his neck, “me too.”

Suna laughed. A second later, so did Osamu.

It wasn’t out of affection. They both weren’t infatuated with romance, and neither of them had watched cheesy films which praised the fantastical experience of the first kiss. It was simply a kiss because it was insulting to not finish ice cream properly. That was all.

They kissed multiple times after that. It was usually Osamu who initiated them out of nowhere, and it wasn’t always about ice cream or even food. At some point, it felt nice _– it felt nice_. Suna indulged in them, grew accustomed to the soft kisses, sometimes the deeper ones when Osamu would fondle his earlobe. They never said much about why, and Suna assumed it was because there wasn’t a complex logic behind their actions. The kisses were pleasant. Why else?

A year, more seasons, more puddings and lunches, more kisses –

And then, Osamu disappeared.

Well, it wasn’t for long. Four days. Osamu was gone for four days.

Suna texted him countless times. On the first day it was twice. On the second, it was with six-hour intervals. On the third and fourth, he called every hour. He didn’t go to any of his classes because Osamu could appear at the benches, just like that. He was dragged to the principal’s office for detention. Even then, he peered out the window, expecting Osamu to be waving at him from the gates.

It didn’t happen.

And Suna was – he didn’t know. He didn’t think he wanted to know.

The following Wednesday, three in the morning, Osamu sent him a message.

[ _Ya awake?_ ]

Suna scrambled down the stairs and snuck out of the dorm. It wasn’t challenging, as the security guard was dozing off on his post half the time. Osamu was crouching below the lamppost, and he grinned at Suna upon spotting him. Suna didn’t.

“Sorry,” And Osamu kept on going, mumbling with the same drawl Suna had been listening to for the past three years, since he was fifteen years old, now eighteen. “Rin?”

“I know we’re nothing,” Suna was trembling with – he didn’t know. He didn’t recall losing his composure in ever. He was the type of kid who never threw a fit because he instinctively learned that nobody cared. He was the type of teenager who was listless, who wrote ‘salaryman’ on those ‘where do you see yourself in 10 years’ questionnaires. He wasn’t like this. He wasn’t. And now he was. “But would it hurt to answer your phone at least – _once_?”

And well, maybe Suna was anticipating an apology. He deserved one, didn’t he? He lost hours, nights over calling Osamu, dreading the monotonous rings over the speaker. And yet.

“What do ya mean we’re nothin’?”

Suna snapped to Osamu. His face was contorted with – rage and hurt – _hurt?_ Suna opened his mouth, but his voice failed him.

“ _Rin_ ,” Osamu gritted his teeth. “What do ya mean we’re nothin’?”

_Like that day – he looks like that day. When Rin died._

“Just,” with clenched fists, Osamu stepped back, “fine, then. Be nothin’.”

Under the fluorescent rays of light from the lamp, Suna only then recognized the bandages dotting Osamu’s forearm, but Osamu was gone.

It was like having something, losing it, searching for it, and then finding it shattered to pieces in the rubbish bin. _We were nothing,_ Suna knew that wasn’t true. They spent three years together. Suna’s mornings weren’t defined as the dawn but the terse conversations with Osamu, his Saturdays peppered with the arbitrary kisses. They were something. But Suna never – Suna never had anything in his life to know how to label what that was.

Maybe a month passed again, until Suna was awakened by a text from Osamu on a Sunday – Sunday, when they never met, not once in their three years together. It was short.

[ _I need ya_ ]

And Suna didn’t wait for an explanation. He was there by the lamppost, where they last fought. Or separated, he wasn’t sure what it was.

Osamu was there, standing. Suna didn’t miss the shoddily wrapped bandages around his arms. He looked exhausted. Suna had never seen Osamu so drained, so, “Osamu?” Osamu glimpsed at him. He advanced towards Suna sluggishly, and then pulled Suna into an embrace. They’ve never done that before. Embracing each other. “… Osamu.” It was Osamu. The scent of warm biscuits – that’s what Osamu smelled like. When Suna told him about it, Osamu sniffed himself and wondered if he’d be tasty to eat. Suna inhaled deeply, then breathed out. It was Osamu.

“I…” Osamu croaked, “I killed someone, Rin.”

Suna stiffened.

The truth is, he had a hunch about Osamu’s identity, his background. He’d let the name ‘Kita-san’ or ‘Aran-san’ slip every now and then and despite Suna being uninterested in rumors and gossip, he had heard of those names. Inarizaki was a yakuza gang in town. He didn’t pry, though, because it didn’t matter. He didn’t have the right to judge, and he wasn’t the kind of person to care.

“I thought I’d feel… indifferent. ‘Cause… I dunno, didn’t have a reason. Just thought I could do it. If I didn’t kill ‘im, he would’ve killed me. I know that.” Osamu’s arms tightened around him. “It’s… it feels like I won’t be able to… ya know. Turn back, or somethin’.”

Suna hummed. “You’re scared?”

“Dunno. Never killed someone before to know.” Osamu gulped – Suna could feel his Adam’s apple shift. “Sorry. Let’s… let’s talk ‘bout somethin’ else. Tell me somethin’ else, Rin.”

“Okay.” He combed Osamu’s entangled locks with his fingers. “When I said we were nothing, Osamu,” Osamu didn’t move. “I didn’t… mean it. I did, but it’s not what I was trying to communicate.” Osamu’s hand pressed against Suna’s back. “I never had anyone in my life. They were smudges. Nobody mattered. I was fine with being nothing to them, and having nothing, no one. So I just,” Osamu’s nails were digging into Suna’s skin, past the fabric of his hoodie. “I didn’t know what we were. I didn’t know what to call us. I wasn’t trying to… hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Osamu grunted; the moisture of his breath coated Suna’s shoulder. “Yeah, that hurt, ya dumbass. I was in the middle of sayin’ sorry about not bein’ able to text ya, too. An attack to my pride.”

“Wasn’t listening. Sorry.”

“Seemed like it.” Osamu’s lips curved – his chapped lips tickled the nook of Suna’s neck. “But like, we don’t need a label, do we?” Suna brought his hand to Osamu’s head, pushing them together. “What does it matter? That we’re friends, datin’, somethin’ in between? All kinda bullshit, ain’t it?” Osamu lifted his face – they were close, only one or two centimeters apart. It was a strange distance, although they had kissed so many times. It was because there was either a ton of space or none between them, never this. “I care ‘bout ya, Rin. Like, a lot.”

Something squeezed within Suna.

“Doesn’t really matter what ya are,” Osamu whispered, “what yer name is. That’s all just for show in the end. Ya could’ve been a girl, ya could’ve been named somethin’ fuckin’ ridiculous like, I dunno, ‘platypus,’ and I wouldn’t have given a shit ‘bout any of that. As long as yer you.” He pursed his mouth. “Hey, was that an A plus in romantic or what?”

“You’re stupid.” Osamu pouted at his bluntness. “But thank you. I… feel the same.”

Osamu smiled his languid smile. Suna was blessed. They kissed. Osamu’s mouth had the metallic aftertaste of blood. Suna melted into him.

Osamu didn’t mention how many people he killed since then. Suna knew he was still doing it, and Suna knew that it was bothering him less and less. They still kissed, hugged under lampposts at three in the morning, and –

“Ya know, I think I kinda want yer dick.” Osamu said with his cheeks full of burger, “Like, in me.”

And just like the time they kissed, Suna laughed and went with Osamu’s whims. Sex was thrilling, but it was because he was doing it with Osamu. He wasn’t sure if he could do it for anyone else, _with_ anyone else – in fact, he had no _and._ There was no ‘and’ anyone else. Would any human being with a functional brain need anyone else when they had Miya Osamu? Suna believed not. Or maybe he wasn’t functional. He was okay with that too.

The final semester of high school when they were nineteen, Osamu vanished, once again.

And this time around, Suna could guess why. Osamu always returned within a week, even if he didn’t always message Suna that he couldn’t be there. So, Suna waited. The weekend was quieter without Osamu, and the mornings were slightly sour without the fruit jelly puddings. He kept his attention on the gates, where Osamu would sometimes stand until Suna noticed his presence. Those were the classes where Suna excused himself for unreasonably extensive restroom trips.

However, Osamu didn’t come back after a week.

And instead of anger, trepidation flooded Suna’s senses.

The security guard was awake when Suna sprinted out of the dorm – the man hollered at him, but Suna ran, ran, ran – he had never been so fast in his life. It was a fleeting hour. He faintly remembered threatening a yankee by the road for directions to Inarizaki. He was a high schooler charging into a yakuza gang alone. Fifteen-year-old Suna wouldn’t have done that, because fifteen-year-old Suna lived because he was alive, because fifteen-year-old Suna didn’t know Miya Osamu.

Nineteen-year-old Suna did.

It made all the difference.

He was inside before he realized he was there. His fists stung – blood and glass shards pierced his joints. He clucked his tongue and tore them out, irked.

“What the hell are ya doin’ in here –“

“Where is he?”

The person in front of him was dark-skinned – and that’s about all Suna could perceive with his agitated mental state. “What do ya mean, which gang are ya –“

“Miya Osamu, where the fuck is he?” He was screaming at the top of his lungs, but it sounded like he was drowning, like he wasn’t loud enough. Perhaps if he were louder, Osamu would answer. _If Osamu would just_ , “Osamu. He’s here, isn’t he?”

“I mean, yeah, but he’s not –“

“He’s alive, isn’t he?” He trudged towards the guy and grabbed his shoulders. “Tell me he’s alive.”

“Jesus, fuckin’- look, be glad I’m not shootin’ ya at the spot, we’re all kinda bottled up here and –“

“ _Just tell me he’s alive,”_ He couldn’t breathe. There was too much going on. His hands were still lukewarm with blood.

The guy pried him off and shouted, “Hey, someone bring Atsumu here. I don’t know what the fuck is goin’ on, but I’m too tired to even kill ‘im. Let Atsumu do it.”

 _Atsumu. Miya Atsumu._ Osamu’s twin.

“The hell,” A groggy string of cusses tagged along, “who’re ya?”

Suna almost hugged the guy because he had Osamu’s face. It wasn’t Osamu, though, just Osamu with blonde hair. They were completely disparate people. “The fuck, are ya Kasai’s leftover lackeys? Thought I killed all of ‘em. Ya here to die or what?”

“I’m Suna Rintarou,” He said in one breath, “is Osamu alive?”

Atsumu’s face twisted into that of recognition. “Aha, yer _the_ Rin. Ya actually came for ‘im.” He scrutinized the condition of Suna’s hands, then the door. “Didja literally break the door? That shit’s goddamn hard, ya know.”

“Look, I just need a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ and I’ll fuck off.”

“Hey, can’t have that, Samu will be sad. He’s been sulkin’ about it for the last two hours.” Atsumu twirled on his heels. “If that wasn’t an answer enough for ya, then yer dumb. But it was a yes.”

_He’s alive. He’s alive._

_He’s alive._

“Ya gonna stand there all night or what?” Suna frowned. “I just said that Samu will be sad, didn’t I? Samu has a crush on a dumbass, for fuck’s sake.” He disregarded Atsumu’s jibes and followed him into the lift. “He was injured pretty badly, but he’ll recover within a month or so. There’s a wicked bruise on his face – I’ll shoot ya if ya call ‘im ugly.”

“You’re uglier than him even with an uninjured face, so. Don’t worry about it.”

“Never mind, I get why Samu likes ya. Yer as fucked up in the head as he is.” Atsumu spat and flung open one of the wooden doors in the hallway. “Hey, Samu, yer better brother has a present for ya.”

“Yer not…” Osamu trailed off as soon as he saw Suna with his brother. Atsumu was right – there was a massive bruise on the left side of Osamu’s face. Suna felt a mixture of things, beginning with the dire need for a Google search on how to hide a body. “Rin. Didja put yer hands in a blender?”

“He broke the door,” Atsumu supplied.

“He broke _the what_?”

“Doesn’t really matter.” Suna dragged a stool by Osamu’s bed. “How are you feeling?”

“No, no, no, what the hell, Rin, yer gettin’ yer hands patched up. Like, now.”

“It’s just a cut.”

“No, ya mean _cuts_ , plural. A ton of ‘em.”

“Fine. I’ll disinfect them on my own.” There was a first aid kit in the drawers. Atsumu was gone. “So, how are you feeling?”

“Crap,” Osamu grunted, “I’m ugly with the bruise, aren’t I?”

Suna scanned Osamu’s face sincerely. “Yeah, but you’re still more good-looking than your twin.”

“Wow, ya really know what I like to hear.”

Although Suna didn’t request for details, and Osamu never provided any before, it wasn’t the same that night. Or maybe that’s how Osamu felt, because he started talking. “They mistook me for Tsumu. They’re usually more cautious of ‘im and I knew that, so I, I let myself get caught. I calculated the possible outcomes and couldn’t see us both gettin’ out of it. I tricked Tsumu and let ‘im run for it.” He laughed, but it was empty, hollow. He wasn’t looking at Suna. “I was underestimatin’ Tsumu. Never seen ‘im so fuckin’ furious about me breakin’ a promise.”

“What promise?”

“That we’d always believe in each other,” Osamu sucked in a stuttered breath, “no matter what.”

“And you didn’t believe in him?”

“I thought he couldn’t get us outta that. He probably could’ve, I was just, I dunno, scared that he’d actually die, or somethin’.”

Suna wrapped the bandage around his hand. “Not for yourself?”

“’Course I was scared, but I mean. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for Tsumu. Dyin’ is scary, but Tsumu dyin’ would be scarier.” He swallowed. “Sorry, Rin.”

“About what?”

“Should’ve thought of ya too.” Osamu sounded clogged, choked up. Like he was about to cry. Suna had never seen Osamu cry. “Should’ve thought of ya before I- did somethin’ like that, _stupid_.” His steel orbs were glistening, and Suna dropped the tongs and cotton balls, bringing Osamu into his chest. Osamu let out a wrangled gasp, like he was suffocating, as he clawed into Suna’s shirt. “ _Sorry_ ,” The broken whispers pulsed against Suna’s heart. “Sorry, Rin, Rin, Rin, _Rin_ …”

“Osamu, it’s o –“

“ _Not okay_.” The material of his shirt was becoming saturated, and Suna instantly swept his finger over Osamu’s ear – something that usually calmed him down. Osamu was crying. “Not fuckin’ okay, Rin – I would kill ya if ya choose to die without thinkin’ ‘bout me.”

“That kills me anyway, doesn’t it?”

“Ya know that’s not what I mean, ya ass.”

Suna brushed his lips over Osamu’s temple. “Yeah. I guess I’m,” He bit the inside of his cheek. “I’m not okay.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Rin.”

They kissed. They didn’t have sex, but they kissed.

A week later, when Osamu received permission to go outside, he called Suna. Osamu said he wanted to visit Rin’s grave. “That’s almost an hour from here.”

“Yeah, but ya know. Seein’ ya again made me miss her.”

As always, Suna went with what Osamu wanted. He sweated buckets as he pushed Osamu’s wheelchair up the valley. Osamu teased him about his lack of physical strength. It was the moment when Suna inwardly noted to register for a membership at the gym.

They set the can of tuna on her grave and sat down, like they did four years ago. Suna reminded himself of Osamu and how he held Rin’s lifeless body.

“Are all twins willing to die for each other? Just wondering.”

“Nah.” Osamu cupped his chin, “Sometimes, I wanna strangle ‘im. It’s complicated. But like, I would. I almost did. And rather unfortunately, if I weren’t thinkin’ straight, then I’d do it again.”

“Hm. And you’re okay with dying like that?”

“Yeah.”

( _Then, naturally, Suna Rintarou – who was not affluent, not loving nor loved – had no reason to fear death._ )

“Osamu.”

“Hm?”

“I think I’m afraid of dying.”

Osamu eyed him dispassionately. They never discussed about this, about Suna’s take on death. But Osamu smiled anyway. “Yeah?” He probably understood.

No, Suna _knew_ he understood.

“Yeah.”

_But I guess if it’s you, I’d be okay with dying like that too._

“I think Tsumu has a fuckin’ crush on Sakusa.”

Suna snickers. “Saw that coming from a mile away. He carries a bottle of hand sanitizer with him everywhere now.”

“Yeah, ew. Miya Atsumu has learned _compassion_ , that shit ain’t my brother.”

“Have some mercy.” Suna cracks his knuckles before placing his fingers over the steering wheel. There are scars between his joints. “Are we inspecting 6-chome today? We haven’t really been progressing.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s ‘cause ya keep sucking my ear, I dunno, Rin.”

“You grab my dick right afterward.”

“Minor details.” Osamu retorts, “But it is a little… I dunno, unusual.”

“You think so too?”

“Yeah. It’s not like we’ve been finding much, but the evidence we do have all point to the east. Like the victims, they all live somewhere in proximity with an eastern family. Like they want us to believe it’s the east that’s responsible for this.” Osamu draws a circle around their map. “But it’s like a trap, almost. Makin’ it obvious on purpose to have us think it’s the actually one of the western gangs, when it is in reality, the east.”

Suna concedes with the theory. “Yeah. It’s intricately set up, too – in terms of cases, the frequency between the east and west are symmetrical. Kidnappings have been around Shiratorizawa and Inarizaki for the west, and Nekoma and Karasuno for the east. It’s only that the area’s pretty sparse.”

“Ya think they’re tryin’ to pit us against one another?”

“Maybe.”

“Mm,” Osamu sighs. “Wait.”

“What?”

“I wanna pee.”

Suna groans. “I thought you were about to say something important.”

“The hell, ya implyin’ that the relief of bladder ain’t important, Rin?”

“Shoo.” They park in front of a department building, and Osamu chortles. As Osamu’s gone, Suna contemplates over the minute pieces of evidence they gathered – there was no discernible pattern in the cases, sans the common features of the victims. There were some scenes where one could infer that someone from the east committed the crime, such as the location of the victims’ residences, but something was off. While Atsumu didn’t seem like he wanted to be suspicious of his allies in the west, Suna can care less – he has no personal connections with any of them. At this rate, the organization can be anywhere – north, east, south, west. _The scope’s too large, then. No, how big is this organization anyway?_

He flicks at his watch. _Ten minutes. He took his phone._

Something pricks at Suna.

He contacts Osamu.

[ _“The person you are currently trying to call is not…”_ ]

 _Shit._ He stumbles out of the car and hurries to where the public restrooms are. _Osamu, Osamu, Osamu –_

He knows things have gone south when he sees the container stall unlocked, the door agape. _Fuck._ His breathing is uneven, enters, and there’s crimson – crimson all over the tiles. Crimson. Blood. A gun. A phone. Caller ID: Tsumu. And –

( _“Not fuckin’ okay, Rin – I would kill ya if ya choose to die without thinkin’ ‘bout me.”)_

“… Osamu?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there are types of love that cannot be described with a simple "I love you" or a label constructed by society, and I wanted to write about that kind of relationship through OsaSuna/SunaOsa. Not quite just friends, not quite just lovers, but something less and something more simultaneously - and isn't that okay, like Osamu says? It's okay to not be something for other people, because what matters is that you understand each other. 
> 
> \+ I hope you guys all think of poor dead Rin whenever Osamu calls Suna 'Rin' now because that's what I've been doing this entire time and I will not suffer alone  
> ++ Although Suna, Osamu, and Atsumu are all the same age, Suna joined Inarizaki when he was 20 (this isn't mentioned in the chapter), so in formal settings he will treat Atsumu and Osamu as his superiors  
> +++ I think Osamu is simply more in tune and has better control over his emotions than Atsumu. It's not that he's better at killing, as you've seen, just that he can be less affected.   
> ++++ Maybe if you read Atsumu and Suna's conversation in previous chapters again, Suna's responses would make more sense!
> 
> There's more I have in mind, but I also want to hear what you guys have to say. I always appreciate reading your thoughts, as well as your kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions! Thank you as always! We're back to the plot in chapter 9 :)


	9. Crack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter feels shorter than the last one, it's because it is (lol). I will have some flashback chapters like Suna's in the future as well, and you will see that those tend to be longer than my normal chapters. 
> 
> HOWEVER! Fair warning for some of my readers who analyze literally every single detail (I love you but I'm also scared of you because guys what am I supposed to do if you catch all the little details that were meant to be discreet) - this chapter has some MAJOR hints that will matter for future chapters, so keep an eye out for the small descriptions. 
> 
> I will not have you waiting longer - please enjoy the chapter!

One day, Atsumu realized he couldn’t be himself without Osamu.

No, it’s not the kind of sappy ‘I can’t live without you’ notions in movies, because they’re twins and that would be mildly incestuous. It wasn’t that he _couldn’t_ be Miya Atsumu without Osamu. He could – he could still like fatty tuna, he could still be almost one-ninety centimeters tall, and he could still be athletic. But he wouldn’t be Miya Atsumu without Miya Osamu. He could be parts of himself but would never be himself.

When Atsumu drunkenly laid this out for Akagi during a gang reunion, Akagi patted him on the back, saying he had too much to drink.

So, maybe nobody else got what he felt, but Osamu did.

_“Ya ever think what we would’ve been if weren’t twins?”_

Osamu was playing on his Nintendo. “ _The hell’s the point in thinkin’ ‘bout that? We’re already born.”_

Atsumu chucked a pillow to his twin’s head. “ _That’s why it’s an ‘if,’ ya dipshit, how are ya literate?”_

 _“I mean,”_ the Nintendo closed with a ‘clack,’ “ _can’t be the same, right? We kinda do everythin’ together.”_

_“Yeah.”_

It wasn’t a dramatic epiphany that altered his course of life. It was something he already felt but had not verbalized to himself or anyone else.

But even if they were twins, Atsumu was the older one. Their parents never had Osamu address Atsumu as ‘nii-chan’ or crap, but the dynamic was present. Atsumu was the one to guide Osamu into a hellhole of chaos, but also the one to get them out of it. He was only ten minutes older, but ten minutes older, nonetheless. They were essentially equals, but every now and then, those ten minutes affected their behavior.

Like the time Osamu almost starved to death – it was Atsumu’s mistake, assuming chips and junk food could sustain them forever. He was that moronic kid who didn’t know shit about nutrition and healthy diets and simply snatched the cheapest stuff from the shelves and kiosks. And Atsumu could live on that, but Osamu couldn’t.

His decision to rob the bank, he recognized, was holistically stupid. But nobody else would comprehend the pulverizing pressure of those ten minutes. Atsumu was responsible for those ten minutes without Osamu in his life. A marginal difference, but that was the only external factor which set them apart. And that’s why it mattered.

_“I’m only gonna feed you expensive shit when we’re adults.”_

Osamu snorted. “ _Ya dunno how to cook, Tsumu. And yer favorite snack is still lollipops.”_

_“Shut yer trap, I was tryin’ to say somethin’ affectionate for once!”_

_“Repugnant. I like all food anyway.”_

_“Sure, Samu.”_

He had an irrational belief that he’d cease to be Miya Atsumu without Miya Osamu.

And to an extent, he still believes it.

_“Osamu was shot multiple rounds. He stopped breathing once- twice, I don’t even know, fuck. Atsumu. Are you listening? Atsumu.”_

He roars at Sakusa to ‘go faster’ every three seconds. Sakusa does for the first five shouts, and then eventually grunts, “I can’t, Miya.” The hospital was a kilometer away. Atsumu rushes out of the car and runs.

He might’ve crashed into some pedestrian who yells at him, to which he ignores. He almost shoots a kid that won’t stop kicking his balloon in the middle of the sidewalk. He’s panting, half of his field of vision is white, but the lush green bushes and artificial flowers planted in the hospital’s garden blur to his left and right. There are several black sedans parked haphazardly by the hospital’s main entrance, and Atsumu knows those are Inarizaki’s.

“ _Miya Osamu,”_ He growls, slamming the reception desk. The nurse yelps. “ _Fuckin’ pig, I said Miya Osamu.”_

“H-he should be in the ICU, he was –“

Atsumu dashes to the ICU. He’s been here a couple times, like when their last Kumicho passed. He was pretty darn happy then, but he isn’t now.

The floor is crammed with hospital clients, nurses, doctors, and far away, men in suits – Inarizaki. Kita, Suna, Aran, Akagi, Oomimi.

“Samu,” Atsumu whispers, “Samu. Where’s Samu?”

Suna’s the first one to notice his arrival. “Atsumu.” He appears as if he hasn’t been sleeping for weeks, when Atsumu knows that’s not true. “Sorry, I –“

“What the fuck happened?” He’s doesn’t wish to hear what Suna has to apologize about. “Where’s Samu?”

“Nobody can meet him right now.” Kita chimes in, “He was ambushed. He’s in surgery and they’re removing the bullets. One grazed a vital organ, one went through his side, and another through his left thigh. The injuries were grave, but the blood loss was significant. There was a delay in contacting the ambulance, and the quicker route was under construction. We…” Kita’s face is jaded, the color of cement. “We almost lost him twice. He wouldn’t breathe.”

_He wouldn’t breathe._

(“ _Samu? Samu, don’t sleep, don’t fuckin’ sleep here, we’re goin’ home. Samu, we’re goin’ home, yeah? Samu, Samu –“)_

“What the fuck were ya doin’?” Atsumu demands to Suna, who doesn’t meet his eye. Suna’s joined knuckles squeeze. “When Samu was bleedin’ to death, where the hell were ya?” He fists Suna’s collar. “You answer when a fuckin’ superior is askin’ a _question_ , Suna.”

He’s not the type to flaunt or take advantage of the few years of experience he has on his comrades. But that’s not what this is about, and Suna’s aware of that, too.

Akagi interferes, “Hey, Atsumu, this isn’t really Suna’s –“

“He was _there,” when I wasn’t, he was there when I fucking wasn’t, so why,_ “the _hell_ were ya doin’?”

“Sorry.” Suna doesn’t resist. Atsumu only releases him because he doesn’t. “He told me he was going to the restroom. I thought we weren’t being pursued. Like yeah, we’ve been snooping around but everyone in Inarizaki has been. There was no reason for us to be targeted. But then Osamu wouldn’t pick up my calls and,” Suna’s nails digging into his scarred knuckles draws blood. The wound gets deeper and deeper as the nails claw at his flesh. Aran lightly hits Suna’s fingers with his gun. “Sorry. I don’t have an excuse.”

“It really isn’t on Suna for this one, Atsumu.” Aran mutters with that righteous tone of his, the one he speaks with precisely because he’s correct. “Osamu was gone for ten minutes. Suna only called because he’s Suna – if it were any of us, we wouldn’t have bothered even texting ‘im till fifteen minutes passed. There was no apparent benefit of killin’ Osamu or Suna. If anythin’, everyone wants to kill ya.”

That’s an accurate statement – although Osamu was generally viewed as the nimbler, more astute twin, Atsumu was the one where the bullets were aimed. When they were nineteen, Osamu was only captured because he was able to deceive Atsumu as well as their opponents. This case isn’t like then – the enemies specifically shot Osamu.

 _Why_?

“When did he go in?” Atsumu glances ahead.

“Half an hour ago. Where the hell were _you_?”

“I,” _was at Seijoh talking to Oikawa Tooru, an eminent shateigashira of one of the four eastern gangs._ “… Was investigatin’. Left my phone in the car.” He shouldn’t have. He should’ve retrieved his phone when Sakusa offered. Why the hell did he do that? “What do we have? No, do we – do we have _anythin’_?”

Oomimi shakes his head in denial. “We’ve been contacting some informants around town. They weren’t caught anywhere. That area doesn’t have surveillance cameras installed. Besides, he was attacked in a public restroom built around thirty years ago – it’s to be expected.”

“Then how the _fuck_ are we gonna,” _kill them, tear them apart, keep them barely breathing and slice their tongue off and then quash their vocal chords so they can’t even scream,_ “there’s gotta be somethin’ –“

“The department store was nearby Nohebi as well. We’ve requested them to search the region. Daishou is,” Kita stalls for a while, “well, he’s fast. He’ll give us an update by tonight.”

Aran grimaces, “And how much did ya pay ‘im?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Fuckin’ gold digger snakes.”

“We can’t dwell here much longer, even if Osamu’s surgery is wrapped up.” Kita watches the horde of doctors and nurses swarming the halls and stairs. “The Kumicho has connections with the hospital’s head director, but it’s a matter of time before the dogs sniff us out. Probably a night in the ICU, and then we’d have to transfer Osamu to Inarizaki’s headquarters and medical care unit.”

Atsumu massages the muscles in his sore shoulders. “Yer gonna have Hitoshi look at ‘im?”

“Gin and Tendou from Shiratorizawa.”

He picks at a chapped part of his lip. “… What did the docs say? He’s gonna live, ain’t he?”

“His vitals were stabilized when he went in for the operation. They said there was a possibility of trauma-induced conditions or a brain injury but,” _brain injury, like, amnesia shit? Wasn’t that only a trashy trope in films?_ “He’ll live, Atsumu. ‘Course he’s gonna live, he’s Osamu.” And Atsumu wants to trust Kita, like always.

It’s a little hard, today.

Osamu is accepted to the ICU for the night after the surgery finishes. His bullet wounds were stitched up, but they had to examine him further for the next few hours. Atsumu sits on the hospital bench, his legs sprawled in front of him, one of his loafers he’s knocked away lying next to a vending machine in the corridor. _Samu._ “Samu,” He mumbles aloud. It’s like saying the name would revive him, because when Atsumu said, ‘Samu,’ Osamu would always, always reply with, ‘Tsumu.’ They verified each other’s existence that way. “Samu.”

A paced patter of footsteps resounds from his left. Pause. _Pit, pat, pit, pat._ The waft of mildew and rain. _Oh._ “Kita-san.”

“Don’t kick yer shoes, Atsumu.” Kita puts his loafer by his foot. “Yer not a kid.”

“Still younger than ya.”

“By a year.”

“More than year.” Typically, his banter with Kita would enliven him. There’s something about Kita that never failed to boost Atsumu’s mood. It’s not applicable right now. “Why’re ya here, Kita-san? Everyone went home.”

“I’m more than yer boss, Atsumu. Osamu, too.” Atsumu flinches at that. “Ya know that already.” He does. Kita has never been only Atsumu’s superior. Kita was the first person who acknowledged him, Kita was the one who took them in, and Kita was the one who practically raised them and transformed them into adults, or at least something that resembled an adult.

However –

_(“Yer not the person I’m gonna hear this from. I don’t need details about the relationship ya have with Kita-san; he’ll tell me when he has to.”_

_“Do you really think so?”_ )

_Fucking Oikawa Tooru. If only he didn’t blabber such bullshit._

“Kita-san,” He’s going to regret this. He will let his emotions rampage once more, bellow sentences he doesn’t really mean, and selfishly pray that they’d let it pass. Osamu and Kita were more than aware of this side of him. They’d get it. Kita would, “do ya trust me?”

Kita flutters to him, his eyes dilated.

“’Cause,” Atsumu laughs. He might be hysterical. He’s not certain. “I met Oikawa today.” He has to grind through the muddle of thorns he’s reminded of, the endless thoughts that branch out from Oikawa’s rhetorical, ‘do you really think so.’

“Atsumu –“

“I wouldn’t have seen ya differently. Even if ya were colludin’ with Oikawa this whole time, were betrayin’ Inarizaki, stabbin’ the Kumicho in the back, I wouldn’t have given a shit. Ya have reasons. Ya always did, and I respect that about ya. But what do I- no, what do any of us know of ya? I dunno why yer a yakuza, I dunno why ya chose us, _me_ , I dunno what ya think is right or wrong, all I _fuckin’_ know is that ya like to eat those inanely healthy tofu hamburger crap and,” his volume rises, he’s heaving short breaths, and his surroundings become spotty. “And I was with ya for ten years. _Ten,_ Kita-san, that’s almost half my life. I trust ya more than anyone, yer the person who knows me inside out best after Samu, so _why the fuck_ ,” he’s yelling. Kita doesn’t hush him like he usually would. Maybe he can’t. “Why the fuck,” His teeth hurt, and he realizes it’s because he’s been gritting them for the past five minutes. “Do I have to hear those answers from someone else?”

He didn’t. But he could’ve, and that’s what he resents.

When there’s no response, only pin-drop muteness, Atsumu chuckles. “Hey, Kita-san.” Kita is rigid, frozen. Atsumu feels the most minute pang in him at the expression because Kita – he’s never seen Kita look like that before. Raw. Bare. “Yer not gonna ever tell me, are ya?” He stands slowly, avoiding Kita. He doesn’t want to feel apologetic. “’S fine. It’s not like I can stop trustin’ ya, just like that.”

A part of him longs for Kita to grab him and reassure him that of course, he trusts Atsumu.

But Kita doesn’t.

When he clambers into the garden on the rooftop of the hospital for fresh air, he sees Sakusa at the ledge, surrounded by shrubs and barren trees. Snow is falling, although minimally. Atsumu catches a snowflake in his palm and witnesses the flake melt immediately. “Omi.”

Sakusa turns around. “Miya.”

“Why’re ya here?”

“Motoya is an intern in this hospital.”

“Oh.”

“How’s Miya… your brother.”

“Alive.”

“That’s a relief.”

He would normally remark how insincere Sakusa comes off as, with his robotic, ‘that’s a relief.’ He now understands that that’s just how Sakusa is, inexpressive and methodical. He does – he also experienced that past that mask of nonchalance and almost cruel dryness, there was something more real, more authentic. If he actually didn’t care, he wouldn’t have purchased a lemon-scented air refreshener. If he had no sympathy, he wouldn’t have accompanied Atsumu to Tokyo Tower. And if he really hated Atsumu, he would’ve shot him, or something alike. Sakusa didn’t do any of that.

But Atsumu’s too tired and too pent up – he’s desperate for an outlet, and he gives less than a quarter of shits about how his tendencies impact others in the process.

(That Sakusa doesn’t know this side of him.)

“Don’t say stuff ya don’t even mean, Omi.”

Sakusa hardens. “… What?”

“It’s not like ya ever had anythin’ to compare this kind of crap with,” _Ah, fuck, my head aches. Isn’t it too cold? It’s too fuckin’ cold out here._ “What would ya know, when ya called the death of yer siblings an insignificant loss?”

Sakusa’s gloved hand twitches in Atsumu’s periphery. “Miya.”

“I fuckin’ scorn bitches like ya,” _It’s too loud. Definitely too loud._ “Who act all high and almighty, like ya can relate and shit when ya never had even scraps of the same experience, circumstance –“

“Miya, calm down.”

“ _Don’t tell me what to do_.”

He shovels through the depths of his mind – _what’s the worst thing to say here, how do I hurt him, how do I make him fuck off, how do I, how do I, how do I – I hope you’re never happy for the fuckin’ rest of yer life, pretendin’ like ya understand shit about other people; I hope ya kill yerself in a ditch somewhere; I hope nobody’s at yer funeral when ya do die; I hope –_

“I hope ya stay like that yer whole life,” Atsumu stares icily at Sakusa’s gloves. “Too fuckin’ scared of the world around ya, too fuckin’ crept out to touch somethin’, someone. So scared, that when ya drown, ya won’t be to hold the hand that reaches out to save ya. So fuckin’ afraid, that ya won’t be to know what it means to be together with someone else.” He observes Sakusa, how he just gradually ceases to even breathe, move. It’s sickeningly satisfying, and Atsumu preens at the cathartic sensation.

“I hope yer stay so scared, that yer alone like that in yer germ-free circle yer whole life.”

He doesn’t wait for Sakusa to magically unfreeze. He doesn’t wait for Sakusa to call him ‘Miya.’ The thought of it reminds Atsumu of Osamu and that has him biting on his bottom lip again.

He’s exhausted.

###

After Atsumu’s departure, Kita scans his reflection in the mirror. With much reluctance, he dials a number on his phone. The rings go through, and Kita doesn’t even wait for the overly chipper ‘hello.’

“What did ya spill to Atsumu, Tooru.”

“ _Oh my, someone doesn’t sound too cheery.”_

This is why he didn’t interact with Oikawa other than the formal conferences, where participation was mandatory. “I’m not in the mood to tolerate ya, Tooru.”

“ _Well, there’s nothing for me to say. He didn’t let me talk.”_

“Then why,” Kita sucks in a quivering gulp of air. “Never mind. It’s fine if ya didn’t.” It isn’t like him to fault others for his follies. None of this was on Oikawa, really. Oikawa has been Oikawa since middle school. The only notable difference was that middle schooler Oikawa Tooru had chubbier cheeks and was better at concealing his ambitions than mature Oikawa Tooru.

His thumb hovers over the red ‘end call’ button when Oikawa sings, “ _Hey, Shinsuke?”_

Whenever Oikawa sang, he was up to no good.

“What?”

_“It’s because of Tsukasa, isn’t it?”_

Bingo. Up to no good.

“Tooru.”

“ _I mean yeah, it’s also for the confidentiality. You’re Kita Shinsuke; the core of you remains. But that piece of irrationality that’s influencing you – it’s Tsukasa, right?”_

( _“Hey, Shin. Someday, I’m going to die. When everything becomes insufferable, I’m going to die. But before I do, I’ll_ _–“)_

Kita clutches the edge of the sinks. He twists the faucet. Water splashes against the ceramic and spirals down the drain. _Don’t._ He inhales. _Don’t let him get to you._ Exhale. “Tooru. Shut it.”

“ _What even happened to you two before graduation? Did you break up?”_

“We weren’t like that. Tooru, seriously, cut it out –“

“ _But you still love him, Shinsuke.”_

“ _Tooru_.” Kita snaps. The swooshing echo of tap water descending from the faucet and the gurgling noise from the drain resonate within him. _Don’t let him get to you. Don’t do it._ “Stop. We weren’t like that.”

Oikawa is quiet – finally. A sigh buzzes through the speaker. “ _You know, Shinsuke, I like you. Both you and Tsukasa. But you’re idiots.”_ With that, the other man hangs up on him. Kita steals a brief glimpse of himself in the mirror again before dazing.

( _“Hey, Shin. Someday, I’m going to die. When everything becomes insufferable, I’m going to die. But before I do, I’ll embrace you like this one last time, tell you that I love you more than anyone else in this whole world, this whole fucking galaxy, that I love you so much that it drives me insane. I’ll tell you that, and then die. Wait for me until then – and bid me farewell for now.”)_

Kita whispers, “I guess we are.”

###

Twelve.

Atsumu kills twelve people over the course of a week.

He delays the inspections with Sakusa. Instead, he visits Kita’s office the night Osamu’s transferred to Inarizaki, after Tendou confesses that even he has no clue when Osamu will be conscious again. He trudges to Kita and doesn’t say much other than, ‘I wanna do those jobs again.’ Kita directs him to one location after another, one target, two targets, three – and Atsumu counts.

He doesn’t interrogate the dealers about whether they’re the ones that shot Osamu. He doesn’t care about that. It isn’t like killing Osamu’s assailant would heal Osamu’s wounds. It isn’t like it would end the kidnappings. It isn’t like the fire in Atsumu would be extinguished.

He shoots.

Shoots, shoots, and shoots.

When he was training as a teenager, he loved practicing his aim. When his finger was on the trigger, there was no leisure to ponder about anything else. It was just the circular target, the gun, and Atsumu. When Osamu was pleased with his mediocre fives and sixes and his lucky eights and nines, Atsumu strived for bull’s eye at every opportunity he had. Consequently, his headshots were perfect.

_Thirteen._

Through the center.

Perfect.

( _“I don’t think I wanna kill.”_

_Osamu squinted at him, his orbs tinged with incredulity. “The hell did ya practice yer aim so much for, then?”_

_“’Cause, I dunno, that’s not the same! That’s about bein’ capable and epic, not like, killin’. Ya can still kill without bein’ a precise sniper and shit.”_

_“Well, ya never killed anyone before to know that for sure. Who knows, yer kinda like a maniac.”_

_“But dyin’ is,” He was terrible at expressing his thoughts. “Dyin’.”_

_“No shit, Tsumu, and eatin’ is eatin’ and sleepin’ is sleepin’.”_

_“Fine, but like, ya can’t help but think how they’re just people too.” Their father was shot as well, and his death triggered their mother’s anxiety, leaving their household in shambles. “We’re all people, aren’t we?”_

_Osamu flicked his scalp. ‘Ow, Samu, what –‘ “If ya think too much, you’ll implode, Tsumu.” Atsumu glared daggers at his twin. “I mean, yeah, we’re all people. They probably have a life. If we had careers where we could see people as people, where we didn’t have to dehumanize one another, then ya know, we’d hafta care. Like firefighters, I dunno. But we’re yakuza, and so are they.”_

_Atsumu murmured, “And if I never get used to it, what then?”_

_“Deal with it.”)_

He’s numb. How many has he shot tonight? Two? Three? That’d put him at fifteen. He breathes in and out as he regards the corpse of the dealer from above. No tattoos – of course. Not identifiable, once again. Fifteen. He has killed fifteen people in a week. That’s a record for him, excluding that midnight when he was nineteen, barging into Kasai. Fifteen – fifteen.

 _How many more,_ he think dully, _how many more, till you come after me?_

He just doesn’t get why – why _Osamu_? Osamu wasn’t the one shooting their buddies, Osamu wasn’t the one who stood out, Osamu was merely performing his duties as a member of Inarizaki, and if it could’ve been anyone from Inarizaki, then why select Osamu? Why not Akagi? Why not Oomimi? Why not Ginjima, why not one of the lackeys, why not – why not Atsumu?

 _Why not Atsumu_?

He’s considered myriad options. Perhaps Osamu discovered something he shouldn’t have, perhaps Osamu was actually approaching their real identity, and perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. But did that matter? That’s not what’s critical, is it? The fact that they went for Osamu – that’s what pissed Atsumu off.

That’s what he couldn’t deal with.

He texts Kita that he’s done and crunches on a lollipop between his teeth. He’s been firing shots all night. He doesn’t remember when he’s recently been in bed. There’s nobody at home, anyway. There’s nobody at home waiting, there’s nobody at home with dinner cooked, there’s nobody at home except Atsumu, when everything in the apartment is designed for two people. Two mugs, two toothbrushes, two chairs, two bedrooms, two wardrobes.

He doesn’t really want to be alone in a house for two.

The frigid winter blackness reeks of gunpowder and sewage, as Atsumu strides down the streets of Tokyo aimlessly, four in the morning. Half of him imagines a bullet tearing through his lungs out of the blue for the fifteen people he has shot. His other half rejects the idea because Osamu would be irate if Atsumu’s dead when he awakens from his comatose state.

Then – the standard ringtone of his phone goes off, too loud for Atsumu and his surroundings. He groans. _Who the fuck is dumb enough to text someone four in the morning, what kind of etiquette is that –_

[ _Unknown number_ ]

That’s what the pop-up reads. Atsumu’s gut tells him to ignore it, and Atsumu always went with his gut, but it’s not like Atsumu is in the right mind now, either.

[ _Let’s negotiate. Come to 9-chome tomorrow at eleven. We just want to talk._ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're an anime-only fan and don't know who 'Tsukasa' is, search 'Haikyuu Tsukasa' :)
> 
> Also, I don't encourage or condone how Atsumu deals with emotional distress. When you're tired, 1) don't go on a killing spree, 2) don't be so mean.  
> Otherwise, I loved reading all your feedback from the last chapter; it seems like people were heartbroken over the same line. I'm always grateful for your endless love and support - thank you so much, everyone! 
> 
> \+ I finished planning this fic two days ago, and it seems like there will be ~17 chapters total, unless I decide to add extra bonus chapters. So we are over halfway through!


	10. Breaking Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *EDIT* - Chapter 11's update will be delayed due to the fact that the author is currently in finals week! It will be at most 2~3 days late, but that might depend on how much I procrast- cram. Yes. So please don't be too dismayed when you don't see an update on the 16th. Thank you!

_We just want to talk, my ass._

Just because Atsumu has been accumulating an astronomical amount of sleep debt this week, does not mean he’s so burnt out as to be unable to distinguish a negotiation from a bait. He can run a couple calculations and hypotheses in his mind – there was a chance that Osamu was a mechanism in their strategy to lure Atsumu. It’s been peculiar, frankly – nobody else had found the branded Nekoma bullets, because if so, it would’ve wreaked havoc throughout Inarizaki and the west wing of Tokyo. That had to mean the evidence was deliberately left behind by the organization to mislead Atsumu; the only factor they didn’t take into account was most likely Kenma’s abduction, which became key to discussing matters with Kuroo.

It meant Atsumu was a part of their plan.

 _Not I know what that grand plan is,_ Atsumu casts a weary glance towards Osamu’s drawers by the shoe rack. He rummages through the first cabinet and takes out Osamu’s stash of cigarettes. Without much thought, he slides it into his pocket along with the lighter. 

Eleven, 9-chome – he has over a day remaining if it was tomorrow. He rams his car keys in and heads to Inarizaki. The stench of dust and rubber in the car irks him, but he doesn’t comment on it – it was his fault for not driving his own car often.

 _Liked the one Omi bought,_ he looks at the ventilators, where Sakusa hooked his bottle of air refreshener, closer to Atsumu’s side. _Where did he get it again?_ The question soon dissipates when he groans on beat with another wave of pounding in his head. _Fuck, I’m gonna sleep in the car._ He slaps himself on the forehead and focuses his attention on the traffic lights.

Technically, if it were any other day, he’d be with Sakusa, traversing through Inarizaki territory – but Atsumu was excused due to Osamu’s absence and hospitalization, and Sakusa was dismissed to Itachiyama for his daytime missions as well. _What does he even do,_ Atsumu scratches his elbow, and then vaguely reflects on what he said to Sakusa at the rooftop garden.

_(“I hope yer stay so scared, that yer alone like that in yer germ-free circle yer whole life.”)_

_Should’ve finished at drowning._ Sakusa was completely frozen, his obsidian orbs obscure and empty. _Ah, shit. I didn’t want to think about him._

“Atsumu, how’re ya?”

He lifts his chin. “Oh, Aran-san. ‘M good. Just peachy.”

Aran nods, “Sure. Don’t push yerself.”

“Yessir. Ah, is someone in the supply closet?”

“No, I believe not.”

“’kay, thanks.”

The supply closet is every Inarizaki lackey’s hideout of sorts – Atsumu and Osamu used to sneak in and eavesdrop on the juicy conversations their seniors shared, like about which yakuza was damned because they hung out with the wrong crew, or how there was ridiculously cheap whiskey downtown you could buy at less than 200 yen. Those days gradually withered in number as more lackeys joined under Atsumu and Osamu, but Atsumu knew that Osamu and Suna would be there for hours sometimes, the door unlocked. He’d roll his eyes and tape a ‘no entry’ sign to the door and walk away.

When he goes in, there’s nobody and nothing but cardboard boxes stocked with firearms and undisposed leather furniture. He meanders around the room for a minute, and then pulls at the door to the balcony – it’s not fancy, just a protruded space barely enough to fit two people. Atsumu rips open the packet of cigarettes and sets one aflame on the tip.

The acrimonious flavor of nicotine and scorching hot burn of the smoke fills his throat. Atsumu hacks on his spit and glowers at the cigarette between his fingers. _The fuck, how does Samu even,_ he doesn’t recall how Osamu started smoking. It might’ve been after his first official mission without Atsumu, when he was assigned with Akagi when he was twenty. Atsumu vividly remembers how horrified he was when he saw Osamu smoking in their veranda while calling Suna. _Ow, ow,_ he distances his hand from his face, the smoke stinging his eyeballs.

Although Atsumu couldn’t imagine doing anything else other than yakuza work as of now, he does recognize that it wasn’t his best career choice. He had a knack for overanalyzing and overthinking and it usually wasn’t strategically beneficial in the least, only detrimental to completing his job. His alcohol tolerance wasn’t high (wasn’t low, either), he couldn’t smoke, and he didn’t enjoy the tedious traditions upheld by the previous generations. He became a yakuza to survive, to save Osamu, and he didn’t regret his decisions. He would’ve died within a year if he hadn’t agreed to obey Kita that day he almost robbed a bank (or realistically, was arrested). Well, Osamu would’ve died first and then Atsumu would’ve committed suicide.

Atsumu sucks in another round of smoke as he admires the view. It’s not an astonishing one, just the plain old gray buildings and crowded roads. It’s weird knowing that it’s the same landscape he saw when he was at Tokyo Tower.

(With Sakusa.)

Atsumu grits his teeth and exhales.

“It’s rare that you’re smoking.” Atsumu swivels around; there’s Suna. “Give me one too.”

“No.”

“It’s Osamu’s, anyway.”

“… Yer creepy.” Atsumu hands him one and Suna lights it on his own. “How’s Samu?”

Suna shrugs. “Sleeping. He looks better today, though.”

“Huh. What did Tendou-san say?”

“Nothing new. They’re mostly concerned about brain damage. There was signs of bleeding – they’re suspecting he might’ve landed on his left shoulder, but that his head might’ve collided into the tiles as well. We can’t verify anything before he wakes up.”

“Oh.” _Knew all that, but._ “So, ya slackin’ off, Sunarin?”

“Please,” Suna snorts, “I can’t do much. Kita-san and Aran-san haven’t given permission for continuing investigations without partners after what occurred to Osamu. I’ve mostly been in touch with informants around town to see if they’ve got anything.”

“And how’d that go?”

“Nowhere. Mostly stuff we already had.”

“Shitty.”

Suna hums. He seems eerily tranquil. “You know,” Atsumu makes a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement. “The last person Osamu called was you.” The missed call from Osamu flashes within him. He wants to vomit. “There was something Osamu said five… no, six years. Six years ago, when I met you.”

He attempts to mask his displeasure. “When ya broke the door.”

“Yeah. I knew Osamu for… four years, I think, then. And it was the only time he cried. He apologized for not considering my future without him when he did that for you.”

It’s as if the fury from then rekindles in Atsumu as the cigarette smoke floats through his lungs. “He was a bitch.”

“I’m with you on that one.” Suna is impassive as ever. “I accepted the reality that you’d always be his priority over me since then.” Atsumu lowers his cigarette and stares at Suna. “It made sense. It’s not like I ever had a sibling to die for, but I understood, because I could die for Osamu. But,” The man’s lips curve upward, but it’s strained. Suna’s cigarette slips from his grasp and descends to the ground below them. “I wonder if he thought of me this time.”

Atsumu is speechless – because he has no clue what to tell him. Seconds slither by with the honking of lunch time traffic echoing in the background.

“Forget that,” Suna grunts, “I think I’m tired. Forget it.”

Atsumu nods. “… Yeah.”

“You look like shit, by the way. Was going to say that first but you were smoking, and I’ve never seen you smoke ever.”

“Gee, thanks.” He has showered in the morning at least – that was the reason why he regressed to his apartment. It couldn’t be the grime and unshaved stubble on his face. “Haven’t been sleepin’.”

“You’re going on those hitman jobs again?”

“Yeah –“ Atsumu skids to a halt at that. “Wait, how do ya know about that?”

“I saw you in September. It was a coincidence; I was there for a quick break, and then, well. You were being called in by Kita-san frequently these past couple months as well, so I pieced two and two together. Don’t worry about it, I don’t think anyone else caught on.”

“Ah, fuck. Thought I was bein’ subtle.”

“You kind of stand out.” Suna chuckles, but then his expression transitions into something more solemn. “I don’t quite get why it’s you, though. You’re not… well. I’m sure you know better.” Atsumu jerks his cigarette up and down instead of nodding. Oikawa’s not the person he wants to be reminded of, and neither is Kita. “I’ve been thinking, Atsumu, but – don’t you think it’s been too easy for you?”

His saliva dampens the cigarette. “Mm. Yeah. I’ve realized.”

“I don’t know how you found out, but we’re all somewhat aware that your team has the most progress. It’s unnatural.”

“Some of the evidence was most likely fabricated by the organization. Not that I can tell which, I only have three brain cells. It’s a hard life.” Atsumu jokes, but Suna doesn’t laugh. Suna never laughed at any of Atsumu’s jokes.

(Sakusa did, though it was only once or twice.)

“I got a text from one of ‘em. They wanna negotiate or somethin’.”

Suna’s not startled. “And you’re going?”

“Duh.”

“That’s pretty stupid.” Atsumu’s not even offended. It is pretty stupid. “I won’t stop you.”

“Ya never do.”

“It’s a waste of energy. What are you going to do with Sakusa-san?”

“What’s he gotta do with anythin’?”

“Thought you two were getting friendly. I guess not, based on your reaction.”

Friendly. Atsumu probably ruined whatever ‘friendly’ they had between each other. “He’s a jerk.”

“I’m skeptical of that, only because he’s put up with your ass for over a month.” Suna detaches himself from the balcony’s rising. “I have to sign some papers. Don’t smoke too much – you’re not very good at it.”

“Piss off, Sunarin.”

Suna stalls, and then, “Don’t do anything exceptionally stupid, Atsumu. Think of what Osamu would say.” He’s gone after that, and Atsumu bends his cigarette. _What Samu would say,_ call him a dumbass of galactic proportions, probably. And then he’d know he wouldn’t be able to stop Atsumu and tag along instead muttering something along the lines of, ‘I should’ve eaten you in the womb.’ _Ah, see, I’m thinking about him again. Bad, bad._

He extinguishes the flame against his palm. He doesn’t even flinch as his skin begins to form a blister, pink and orange.

He wishes to be numb.

###

Kita traces his thumb gently over the slope of the boy’s jaw in the photograph. There’s Iwaizumi on the leftmost side, his smile tense and rectangular, displaying his teeth. Next to him is Oikawa, posing with a peace sign atop Iwaizumi’s spiky head, sticking his tongue out defiantly. Then there’s Kita, at least five centimeters apart from the flamboyant Oikawa, formal and composed as he held his high school diploma. And on the rightmost corner is Iizuna – Iizuna Tsukasa, grinning but not quite fully.

It was the one picture they had of all four of them, taken during high school graduation.

Kita tucks the photograph inside his wallet again. He had kept it hidden for years.

“ _I guess we’d be meeting once a year after this,”_ Oikawa chirped, “ _or, I could barge into Inarizaki headquarters every now and then –“_

_“Don’t.”_

_“Cold, Shinsuke.”_

_“Besides,”_ Kita smoothened the creases in his gown, “ _that’d be given that ya become either the shateigashira or wakagashira of Seijoh.”_

Oikawa inflated his cheeks indignantly. “ _Is that even a question? Who else would there be?”_

_“Hajime, maybe.”_

_“Iwa-chan?”_ Iwaizumi was motionless, not too intent on participating in the debate. “ _’S fine, I can beat him. He’s too inflexible – trends are changing, even for yakuza.”_

“ _Fuck you, Shittykawa.”_

“ _What about you, Tsukasa?”_ Oikawa flapped his best friend away. Iizuna pointed at himself awkwardly. “ _I mean, I guess there’s nobody other than you. You’re Itachiyama’s only wakagashira candidate. Isn’t it fortunate to be the legal heir?”_

 _“Ah,”_ Iizuna nodded. Kita didn’t miss how he was fiddling with the split ends of his locks – what Tsukasa did when he was uncomfortable. “ _Yeah. I’ll be learning managerial shit after this. Authority-wise, I’d still be under Kita, though.”_

 _Kita_.

Kita can sense the irritation he felt then. _Kita._ Tsukasa had addressed him as Kita.

They never reencountered as a group after graduation; Kita had events which involved Seijoh often, but Itachiyama being a branch family and not as prominent, naturally excluded them from the majority of traditional gatherings. It was only when Iizuna was elected the new wakagashira two years ago that Kita was able to meet him again. Iizuna was taller, but otherwise a carbon copy of himself from high school.

 _“I’m glad to see that you’re doing well, Kita.”_ Iizuna had said curtly, and Kita had nodded – once. “ _I’ll be going.”_

Kita had stood there, Iizuna’s oath to him howling in his eardrums – and a rush of relief engulfed him – Atsumu had tapped him lightly, “ _Kita-san, yer lookin’ pale. Ya okay?”_ The younger male’s eyes darted about the hall, “ _Ya know that guy? The… the… wakagashira? I dunno, I was nappin’ throughout the procedure, that stuff is dull as hell, Kita-san.”_

_“I’m fine. Thank you.”_

What Tsukasa had murmured in the classroom that evening with Kita in his arms developed into a nightmare, a swamp of dread which Kita found himself becoming further submerged in as years passed. _I don’t want to hear it,_ Kita was always screaming internally, in those repetitive dreams, _I don’t want to hear it, Tsukasa._

“It can’t be ya,” Kita whispers aloud. “It can’t be ya.”

Nobody answers in the vacant office.

###

Fifty-eight hours – it has been fifty-eight hours since Atsumu has slept.

He has shot four more guys overnight, and Kita had reproved him about his hectic schedule; Atsumu assured him that he was sleeping in the afternoon at home. He wasn’t, but Atsumu was petty, and if Kita is purposefully omitting information from reaching Atsumu, then it has to be only fair for Atsumu to do the same, at least on a smaller scale.

He spent almost half an hour in front of the room where Osamu was being treated. He didn’t go in because he had a strong feeling that he wouldn’t be able to come back out once he saw his brother’s face. He’d be reminded of how Osamu would insist on following Atsumu, how he’d insult Atsumu throughout their journey, but ultimately aid his older twin in this shady “negotiation.” And that would wipe out Atsumu’s determination to charge in alone, because by then he’d already have simulated what it’d be like to go with Osamu.

So, Atsumu doesn’t see Osamu. Because even if it’s stupid, he has to be there.

He has to be there and –

_And what?_

_Kill, I guess._

(The endless tremors in his fingers cause sweat to garner in the spaces between his joints. In the back of his mind, he draws the faces of the nineteen men he’s shot, although he subconsciously knows that he couldn’t have seen their features in the dark. Some have silver bands dangling from chain necklaces under their collar, some have folded family pictures in their pockets, and he can heed the names of those whom the men were mumbling before their last breath.)

_Yeah, kill._

“Hey, Atsumu?” Atsumu almost crashes into Oomimi, “Sakusa was at the lobby. I think he’s here for ya.”

“Omi?” Atsumu clucks his tongue, “I ain’t got any business with ‘im.”

“Yeah? He did ask for directions to the Kumicho’s study, so I suppose that’s possible. Anyway, take care.”

“Ya too.”

He has approximately three hours till eleven. _I can sleep in the car or whatever,_ Atsumu thinks, so he twists to the staircase towards the parking lot, but then stops. _Sakusa was at the lobby._

( _“I hope ya stay like that yer whole life, too fuckin’ scared of the world around ya, too fuckin’ crept out to touch somethin’, someone. So scared, that when ya drown, ya won’t be to hold the hand that reaches out to save ya. So fuckin’ afraid, that ya won’t be to know what it means to be together with someone else.”_ )

Atsumu clenches his fists.

 _Just five minutes._ He justifies his behavior by telling himself that he has nothing to do – losing five minutes of a nap isn’t a big deal. _I’ll be in the lobby for five minutes, and then if he isn’t there, I’ll go to my car._

He sinks into the couches at the lobby. There’s mold on the cushions and stains with unidentifiable origins, but he’s barely sat down today. He wants to drink some beer, take a shower, and then sleep. He peeks at the elevator which is on the seventh floor. _Five minutes._ His eyelids feel as if they weigh two hundred tons, and Atsumu struggles to sit upright. _Five more minutes, then._

_Five minutes…_

_Gah, fuck, fuck, fuck, my head, my skull, what the hell,_ he gasps for air as he digs his nails into his scalp – pain ripples through him – it’s the kind of pain when he either sleeps too less or too much, but at least a thousand times worse. “Shit.” He stifles a yawn, “shit, shit…” _Please don’t tell me I slept for two days, that’d mean I ditched the negotiation –_

“It’s ten-thirteen.”

Atsumu stiffens. He doesn’t have to look to affirm who the voice belongs to, but he does anyway.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is leaning against the wall across Atsumu, arms folded over his chest, with his distinctive gloved hands and surgical black mask. “You were asleep for around two hours.”

“Oh.” _But the only way for him to know that is,_ “Ya were there for two hours? Like _that_?”

Sakusa shrugs. “I did try to wake you, but you were knocked out dead.”

“Could’ve left me here.”

“I could’ve.”

 _I could’ve, but I didn’t,_ is what Sakusa is implying. _Why,_ rests in Atsumu’s brain, but he doesn’t question him. “Why’re ya here? Thought ya were back at Itachiyama.”

“There were secure documents which had to be delivered to Kumicho Kurosu from our Kumicho.”

“Huh. Okay.” He stands as well, facing away from Sakusa. “Well, I gotta leave. I’ll see ya around when we resume our investigation, I guess.”

“Miya.”

Atsumu has to muster all his strength to repress the cuss that nearly flies out of him. “… Yeah, Omi?”

“You’re walking towards the parking lot.”

“I guess I am.”

“Do you seriously plan on _driving_ in that condition?”

Something bubbles in him – Atsumu wants to convince himself that it’s agitation. “It’s none of yer business, Omi.”

“You’re being asinine.”

“ _Asi_ \- look, whether I choose to drive a car, get drunk or high, _whatever_ , ya should fuck off and live yer life, ‘cause I’ll do just that _and_ ,” He’s out of breath. The migraine from earlier is rendering his thought process haywire. Or maybe it’s the lack of sleep, he really can’t tell anymore. He inhales, exhales, inhales, and exhales, his neck warming upon the realization that he definitely looks pathetic right now, wheezing over his own tirade.

“Miya,” reiterates Sakusa, unaffected. “Where are you going?”

“Like I said –“

“I’ll only be driving.” Atsumu frowns quizzically at Sakusa. “The last thing I need is for you to kill yourself because you accelerate towards a power pole instead of stepping on the brakes. I’ll drive you there and we can part ways.”

 _I don’t get you._ “… Is this a joke?”

“I don’t joke,” Sakusa is ahead of him, “and you should know that by now.”

 _Yeah but,_ Atsumu stares at Sakusa’s back. _You normally don’t do that for someone who yelled at you to fuck off quite blatantly a week ago._ But then again, if there’s anything Atsumu has learned about Sakusa over the course of a month, it is that Sakusa is beyond the scopes of ‘normal’ as well.

It’s nostalgic, despite the fact that it hasn’t been long since Atsumu has applied hand sanitizer before climbing into Sakusa’s Audi. The lemony scent seems stronger in contrast to the putrid stench of Atsumu’s car. “Ya didn’t remove the air refreshener,” he notes casually, because it’s the first thing that captures his attention.

“Couldn’t find a reason to. So, where’s the destination?”

 _What’s the point if I wasn’t here, though,_ “9-chome.”

It’s destressing. Maybe it’s the steady rumble of the engine or the sweet and sour tang of lemon. It’s almost as if their altercation at the rooftop was a scene out of the figments of Atsumu’s imagination. Sakusa is making a rather persuasive case for it, at least, with how indifferent he is. Perhaps it wasn’t as damaging as Atsumu thought it would’ve been.

“Omi.” He murmurs, “What’s the date today?”

“The twenty-fourth.”

 _December twenty-fourth._ “It’s Christmas Eve, huh.”

“Yeah.”

That explains why Atsumu is hearing the melody of _All I want for Christmas is You_ from a distance. He thought he was hallucinating due to sleep deprivation. “Doin’ anythin’ for Christmas, Omi?”

“No.”

“Of course.”

As for Atsumu, he’s killing people on Christmas.

Fun.

“Samu got me one of those humongous lollipops for Christmas once,” he drifts down the memory lane as tree branches decorated with fairy lights swiftly fleet by, “ya know, there’s one of those lollipops where it’s actually just like, fifty lollipops inside of it. I was like sixteen, I think. And he bought me one that was all honey lemon flavored.” They received an hour of chastising from Kita about cavities and the danger of sugar overconsumption. “I’ve been addicted ever since. He’s the bane of my existence.”

Sakusa quietly drives. It’s familiar – Atsumu just chatting in between the silences, while Sakusa listened. “We weren’t close.”

“Hm?”

“My siblings and I,” Atsumu looks at Sakusa. The fairy lights outside highlight his glossy skin. “We didn’t interact much.”

“Heh.”

(He noticed that there had to be more. Sakusa’s left brow twitched when he discussed his family, his past, like it did when Atsumu opted for a handshake that day at the meeting. It was one of Sakusa’s habits, like how he’d tug his gloves further before he left his car, or how he’d wipe his cutlery when they were at a restaurant for a meal in between their missions. They were minor, but Atsumu had noticed.)

“We’re here,” announces Sakusa, and Atsumu has to process that for a moment because Sakusa didn’t say, ‘get out.’

“Thanks.”

( _You should say something.)_

Atsumu places his fingertips on the handle.

( _Say something.)_

He swings the door open. “Bye, Omi.” With that, he briskly trudges into the alleys of 9-chome, his stomach churning. “Fuck.” He squeezes his trembling wrists. He wants to puke. The odor of acid coats his tastebuds. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” He kicks the cement dust on the ground, his cry hoarse and the December frost making his teeth clatter uncontrollably. _Calm your shit, Miya Atsumu, just,_ “Ugh.”

He moves forward, though his resolve was crumbling with each second. He recalls reading that the temperature today wasn’t that low – negative three degrees Celsius, max. _There’s no way in hell it’s negative three when it’s so damned cold._ Or was that the lack of sleep too? Atsumu really should’ve slept properly.

“Miya Atsumu.”

He squints at the shadow. “We finally meet in person.”

He can’t see beyond the man’s chin and nose as he’s wearing a cap, but judging from his stature and tone, he had to be in his late twenties or early thirties. “We were hoping if you could –“

“Nah, nah, nah.” Atsumu wags his finger, “I’m not here for a negotiation or shit. Just need ya to answer a question, is all.”

The man cocks his head to the side. “Which is?”

“On who’s orders didja shoot Samu?”

“Miya Osamu?” _Who else, dipshit,_ “We can’t say.”

Atsumu sighs disparagingly. “That it?”

“What?”

“Is that it?”

“Well, according to our policies –“

“Fine, then,” He raises his gun, “die.”

Blood spurts out of the cap, and Atsumu becomes more alert of the environment – _there’s more. One at five o’clock. Two behind the pile of rubbish._ He fires in the general direction without looking – something collapses with a nauseating crunch of bones against the concrete.

( _“_ _Fine, but like, ya can’t help but think how they’re just people too.”)_

He collects his breath and aims for the plastic trash bags. _One, two, three. Six meters. Left._

He shoots. Once, twice.

 _Fuck, how many are there?_ His senses are blunted – the faint melody of random carols and the obnoxious orchestra version of _Jingle Bells,_ the adrenaline and fatigue which overwhelm him simultaneously, and the numbing winter frost cause his concentration to waver.

 _One south,_ he fires. The bullet only grazes his target – he fires again, gripping the weapon.

( _“We’re all people, aren’t we?”)_

 _Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think, stop thinking –_ seven o’ clock. Three-point-five meters. Atsumu lifts and fixes his posture, the barrel pointed, his finger on the trigger.

( _“I don’t think I wanna kill.”)_

He can’t push.

_Shit._

In panic, he battles with his own nerves to move, move, _move_ the damned finger, but it doesn’t- it _doesn’t_ –

_I’m gonna die._

_I’m gonna –_

It all happens in an instant. Someone wraps their sturdy arm around Atsumu, and Atsumu’s gasping against the chilled fabric of stranger’s blazer – he jerks in reaction as the person extends their free arm – the deafening _bang_ of gunshots screeching into Atsumu’s ears – “Just breathe, Miya.” Icy, naked fingers cover Atsumu’s right ear, and the commotion becomes a hazy roar. He chokes and has to use his whole body to breathe in, then out, gulping in rounds of frigid air after another. The arm pulls him in closer. “Breathe.”

Atsumu nods frantically, grasping the other. The stranger’s fingers on his ear is oddly soothing. He synchronizes his breathing with the stranger’s, _in, out, in, out._

It becomes easier after maybe three minutes, maybe fifteen – he’s lost the flow of time. There are no more guns fired, at least, because there’s another hand touching Atsumu’s left side tentatively. Then, something brushes Atsumu’s temple – paper? No, a mask.

It’s a mask.

Atsumu feels the bare hand on his ear again. His pupils dilated, he looks up in disbelief. “… Omi?”

Sakusa.

Sakusa is there, meeting his gaze.

“You’re breathing.” The man states, but all Atsumu can think about is Sakusa’s hands, how he’s not wearing his gloves when they’re outside, in some filthy backstreet slum –

“Yer hands,” Atsumu mumbles hurriedly, “where are yer gloves?”

“Took them off for a minute and didn’t have enough time to put them back on,” grunts Sakusa – he’s shaking. He’s shaking like a leaf. Atsumu doesn’t know how he hasn’t realized. “Thought you were going to do something idiotic, so I stayed.” His hands are still on Atsumu – it’s a little weird, but Atsumu doesn’t care.

“Omi, I,” his voice hitches, “When I said,” he despises that he can’t even remember verbatim what he said. It was something horrible. It was something he shouldn’t have even thought of saying. It was something that he was certain he’d regret uttering for the rest of his life. “Sorry.” He can’t even come up with anything else – not an explanation, not an excuse. It won’t be good enough. It won’t suffice. “Sorry, Omi, I –“

“I know.” Sakusa appears like he’s trying to not stutter as he touches Atsumu. Everything about it tears Atsumu apart. “You’re not hard to read.” Sakusa lowers onto Atsumu’s shoulder, one of his hands dropping and grazing the blister on Atsumu’s palm.

“Let’s go, Miya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you haven't caught on, yes -- Kita is an extremely important character, keep an eye on him! 
> 
> I also wanted to explain what was happening to Atsumu in a little more detail. Atsumu couldn't pull the trigger because it was a psychological defense mechanism of sorts - like how acrophobic people freeze when they're at high places. Although Atsumu's fear is not so great as to be called a phobia, it is still there and it has accumulated over the sudden increase in killings he's been engaging in, which is why he couldn't shoot anymore. 
> 
> I did not end with cliffhanger this time! Celebrate! We'll have a nice, relaxed break for chapter 11, so don't be too worried :) Thank you as always for your attention, kudos, comments, subscriptions, and bookmarks!


	11. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm a little late - I finished two finals, I still have two left. The next update might also be a day or two late. 
> 
> I'd highly suggest skimming through the summary of this fic again before reading this chapter, just to refresh some memories. Also, I think this chapter is good point to remind some people - this fic handles dark themes and crime of various forms. I did not want to specify what kinds of crimes as that would spoil parts of the story, sans murder, because that seemed obvious from chapter 1. Therefore, if at any point you feel uncomfortable with certain events of the story, I'd recommend you either skip the scene entirely or drop the fic. I can't add specific warnings because that would ruin the plot I built for the story, and the mystery element is a huge factor as well. 
> 
> Either way, I will thank all of you once again here in the starting notes, because I don't want to write anything in the end notes for this chapter (and you'll see why). I always appreciate every and any kind of feedback you guys have for me, as well as the wholesome kudos, subscriptions, bookmarks, etc. Thank you for being so supportive all the time <3 Enjoy the update!

“Should I drive?”

Atsumu glimpses tentatively at Sakusa, whose hands are flushed beetroot and quavering. The bottle of empty hand sanitizer is in Atsumu’s hands, as Sakusa struggles to pace his breathing with his mask off. They’ve been in Sakusa’s car for the past twenty minutes like this, after Sakusa saved Atsumu barehanded from the ambush. “It’s fine.” Sakusa coughs once, “Three more minutes.”

“Take yer time.” He tucks the plastic bottle into his pocket, diverting his attention to give Sakusa space. The sputtered gasps and hitched wheezing tugs at Atsumu’s conscience. He had crossed a line. He didn’t know how serious Sakusa’s condition was – he presumed it’d be something lighter, less severe. He’s being proven wrong in the worst way possible; he has never witnessed Sakusa this distressed. _Sorry doesn’t cut it._

Sakusa warms the engines, “I’ll take you home.”

“Uh,” _home, right. Had to go home._ “Actually, just drop me off at some motel.”

“Your apartment is literally half an hour away.”

“I just,” _don’t want to be there, it’s too quiet and Samu’s not there, and I keep tricking myself into believing that every rustle, every accidental knock on the door is him, and I think I’m hearing things, I don’t know what’s real anymore, but even more than that,_ “don’t ask.”

Sakusa stares at him. It’s not healthy for Atsumu’s heart, with his mask off and face on full display. “You need rest, Miya. Have you seen yourself in the mirror recently?”

“I know I look like shit, trust me – I don’t need to be at home to, ya know, sleep.”

“Do you have expendable toiletries? Clothes? Cash?” _No, no, and no._ “Don’t be a kid and go home, Miya, you’re _twenty-five_.”

“And yer twenty-four, ya have no right to boss me around.”

Sakusa groans his ‘Jesus-fucking-Christ-I’m-talking-to-a-fetus’ groan. “ _Miya,_ we are not playing this game –“

“I’m fuckin’ _lonely,_ ‘kay?!” Atsumu exclaims frustratedly, a vein popping from his forehead. “It’s Christmas, Samu’s not here, we have thin walls and there’s some Christmas party goin’ on at my neighbor’s every year, and I don’t wanna be wallowing in my bed listenin’ to people cheer and be bubbly and shit while singin’ trashy carols like Holy Night or whatever that is, _alright_?” Ashamed, he moans, “Don’t make _say_ it, for fuck’s sake.”

Sakusa continues to stare him down. Atsumu needs a hole to hide in, like, now.

“Now are ya gonna take me to a motel or not –“

“We’re going to my place.”

Atsumu sniffs. Blinks. Gawks. “We’re what?”

Sakusa doesn’t even answer him as the car thrusts forward.

“Hey, hey, _hey_ – what do ya mean we’re goin’ to yer place, that ain’t –“

“You’re being spied on, Miya. Do you honestly think that it’s wise to dwell at some random motel by the sidewalk when you can’t even fire a gun?”

“That was a _temporary thing,”_

“Temporary or not,” Sakusa interjects, “you almost died tonight. It doesn’t hurt to be more cautious.”

The initial shock begins to subside as Atsumu leans on his seat. “Ya worried ‘bout me, Omi?” He smirks deviously, but his faux-confidence dissolves as Sakusa stops to face him when the lights switch to red.

“Is that wrong?”

Atsumu feels heat creeping to the tips of his ears. “Uh,” Sakusa looks away, but Atsumu doesn’t. “No?” _God damn it, why was that a question,_ “nope. Definitely not wrong. Yeah.” He covers his face with one hand, attempting to conceal his flustered (probably dumb) expression. “Also, wear yer mask.”

“It was difficult to breathe.”

“Well, yer breathin’ now.” _It’s horrible for_ my _breathing, shit._ Sakusa mumbles something inaudible under his breath as he pulls his mask back on. _I’m not thinking straight,_ Osamu in his head chides, ‘ _yer not straight, Tsumu,’_ and Atsumu mentally whines. The last time he was laid was in September, and that was with some lackey at Nohebi, when he was ass-drunk. The _last_ time he got turned on from a guy’s face was when he was twenty and saw Akaashi Keiji from Fukurodani in heels at a club (Atsumu was a w _eak,_ weak man).

Atsumu and Sakusa?

_Sakusa Kiyoomi?_

_Fuck, I might not get laid within the next ten years._

“Get your head out of the gutter,” says Sakusa, “we’re here.”

He’s not quite sure what he expected; Sakusa lives in an ordinary flat, just like Atsumu. _Thought he’d live in an ethanol 70-percent bubble. 99-percent germ free and,_ “It’s nearby Komori-kun’s house, ain’t it?”

“He’s five minutes away.”

“No wonder ya were in a hoodie and everythin’ then.”

Sakusa’s place is on the twentieth floor, with no neighbors. “There’s no one above, below, or beside me.”

“Nobody moves in?”

“They’re all mine.”

“Aha.” _That’s a line straight from a film, right? ‘So, is it only us at this shopping mall today?’ ‘Oh, no, I own the shopping mall.’_ “Well, I’ll welcome myself in.”

There’s a dispenser by the entrance, a plastic bag for shoes, and a restroom connected to the doorway before stepping into the living room. It’s like the house is designed for Sakusa. The sink and shower stall are shiny (shiny, as in _sparkling_ ), like one of those model bathrooms presented in those baking soda advertisements. His bar of soap is umeboshi-shaped. _Umeboshi-shaped soap. Crap, is that kinda cute or what?_ “Ew, no, ‘s not cute.” Atsumu mumbles to himself as he cleanses his hands with a towel.

When he’s out, Sakusa tosses him a sealed packet of clothes, “I haven’t opened them yet. They should fit.”

“Wow, ya bought a _purple_ shirt that reads ‘ _plant a tree, save the Earth’_?”

“Motoya did.”

“Fantastic.” He doesn’t even comment on the panda-print pajama pants. “I think I really like ‘im.”

The hot shower is actually therapeutic. He belatedly realizes that he’s been taking cold showers in December nowadays. _That’s why I was freezing twenty-four seven, was I that out of it?_ He reflects on the flood of panic and trepidation that overwhelmed him when he couldn’t pull the trigger. Had Sakusa left, then by now he would’ve, “Forget it.” He dries himself and changes into the eco-friendly T-shirt and panda pants.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sakusa warns before locking the bathroom.

 _Don’t touch, but I can get a tour, yeah?_ Not that there’s much to admire – Sakusa’s the most minimalist person Atsumu has seen. No framed pictures, no posters to indicate any preferences, no decorations, no potted plants; there is a coffee table and leather couch, a TV set, and a wooden shelf of extra hand sanitizer and alcohol sprays. One can easily infer that the house is for one person, with one mug, one set of cutleries, and less than three plates in the kitchen.

Sakusa sighs as he comes out with a towel dangling from his neck, “I said don’t touch.”

“Ya didn’t say I couldn’t look around!”

“Same difference.”

“Ya have anythin’ edible in yer fridge? ‘m starvin’, didn’t eat dinner.”

“There should be microwave chicken or whatever.”

“Microwave chicken?” Atsumu skims through the contents of the freezer – there’s ice, microwave chicken, frozen chicken nuggets, frozen fries, frozen gyoza, “Omi-kun, this can’t be nutritious at all, and ya always reproach me for my eating habits.”

“They’re Motoya’s.”

“Oh,” _I guess I can safely assume anything uncharacteristic of Omi in this house is Komori-kun’s,_ “Can I?”

“Yeah. Keep my kitchen intact.”

“It’s just a microwave, come on, have faith.” But he peruses the instructions just in case. The chicken is cooked within twenty minutes, and Atsumu chops it into two chunks. _Really though, he only has one spoon, one fork, and one pair of chopsticks? I’ve never eaten chicken with chopsticks, although Kita-san most likely has._ “Omi, got yer chicken too.” He sets the plates on the coffee table.

Sakusa takes the silver fork from Atsumu. “I don’t really –“

“It’s the Christmas spirit, Omi,” declares Atsumu as he pierces the chicken breast with a chopstick. “It’s not roast chicken or anythin’, but at least we have chicken. Wine would’ve been nice, but water’s fine too. I’m drinkin’ from a bowl ‘cause ya only had one cup, but well,” he raises his bowl full of water, “cheers?”

“Whatever.”

“Yeah, cheers.”

They turn on the television and nibble on bits of chicken. It’s not as disgusting as Atsumu thought it’d be, although the barbeque flavor is strong. Every channel is doing a Christmas special, and Sakusa winces when female idol groups dressed as Santa girls dance their adorable Christmas choreography. Atsumu cackles. “Put on something else, Miya.” Atsumu doesn’t. “ _Miya.”_

“Aw, c’mon, they’re cute. See the chick in the center, she’s Rudolph!”

“They’re _loud._ ”

“’kay, ‘kay, I’ll turn the volume down for ya.”

“That’s not the problem.”

“Fine, grandpa.” He switches to the local midnight news channel. “Yer no fun.” Sakusa doesn’t reply as he chews on his chicken on the fork. Atsumu snorts when the chicken topples to the plate again. “Ya don’t spend Christmas with anyone? What about Komori-kun?”

Sakusa wipes his fingers with tissue, “Hospitals are the busiest during Christmas season. People get thrilled over a childish holiday which isn’t even traditionally celebrated in Japan, get drunk, roam the streets, and become a notch inaner than they typically are.”

“Poor Komori-kun.” No matter what, Atsumu would’ve never been a doctor. “I think I always spent mine with Samu. Did I tell ya about how we were detained ‘cause we tried to sneak a tree outta the park? We were almost there, too.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s ‘cause yer hella borin’, Omi. Ask any kid, I’m sure they’ve stolen a tree or two in their life.”

Sakusa opens his mouth, shuts it, and shakes his head.

They resume to their dynamic, where Atsumu blabbers on and on about the most random stories, all Christmas-related. He draws a chortle from Sakusa when he mentions the time when they pranked Akagi together about Santa Claus breaking into Inarizaki, “We like, made fake hoof prints in the snow and the marks from the sleigh, and plucked some silver hair from Kita-san – he almost killed us for that, but ya know – and pretended it was Santa. Akagi didn’t buy it, but then the Kumicho joined in and he was totally persuaded. Nobody knew how to tell him the truth, so he still believes Santa is real.”

“You must have tons of free time.”

“Foxes like to lie, what can I say.”

Atsumu does the dishes, and Sakusa clicks through the channels and lands on a more toned-down Christmas show after bearing through an hour of Atsumu complaining about how dull the news channel was. It’s a show that explains real-time what each megacity in Japan is doing for the holidays, and Osaka pops up on the screen. “Ah, it’s Osaka,” Atsumu props himself on the opposite edge of the couch. “Man, that’s an enormous tree. How do ya think they put that golden star on top?”

“With a very high-tech tool called a step ladder, Miya.”

“I knew that, duh.”

The blithe reporter gestures at the images and brightly lit monuments. Atsumu isn’t really watching her. “Omi,” He mumbles, hugging a pillow. It smells like Sakusa’s sanitizer. “Thanks for stayin’ tonight. Plus the other stuff.”

“Mm.”

“I never,” he gulps and claws at the pillow, but soon loosens his grip. “I never liked killin’. Oomimi-san and everyone said it gets better, but. I dunno, I guess it did. I’d rather not do it though.” Sakusa doesn’t nod, doesn’t even flinch, but Atsumu goes on. “I keep on thinkin’ about ‘em. Whether they had families or boyfriends or girlfriends or ya know, kids. And then I’m reminded of Samu, ma, and,” the Miya household shattered into pieces after the death of Miya Satoru. Who knows how many families Miya Atsumu wrecked. “Some of ‘em are assholes, I know that. I killed a bunch of rapists, dealers, pimps, the list is endless – I don’t regret everythin’. But I mean,” Miya Satoru had dipped into the realms of the underworld, and Atsumu discovered that later. His methods were dirty. But Atsumu liked his father, at least the parts he could remember, and to a four-year-old Atsumu, Miya Satoru was a good man. “It’s best if we let ‘em live, yeah? We’re all human, aren’t we?”

Sakusa’s head is arched back, his eyes closed. “I suppose,” he whispers.

Atsumu licks his bottom lip. “Also, all that shit I said at the hospital – that was bull. I wasn’t… thinkin’ things through. Seems presumptuous for me to tell ya to forget it, but like, don’t let it get to ya. I, I spout a lot of rubbish when I’m tired.”

“You already apologized for that.”

“That was like a rough draft, this is my final one.”

“Rough draft,” Sakusa reiterates with a huff, “fair enough.”

Atsumu gazes at Sakusa from his spot on the couch. He starts at Sakusa’s sprawled feet in his pure white cotton slippers, then travels up his slender legs in black sweatpants, the flat slope of his stomach under his shirt, his sharp collarbones which poke out beneath the fabric, the contrast between the hollow spaces and muscle accentuated by the angle of the dim lamp above, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, and his slightly parted and chapped lips, his dark, raven curls. Sakusa’s hand lies limply next to him, and Atsumu peers at his flawless skin and nails, filed and smooth.

( _“So scared, that when ya drown, ya won’t be to hold the hand that reaches out to save ya.”_ )

“Omi.”

Sakusa cracks open an eye.

“Try holdin’ my hand.” Sakusa bristles. Atsumu isn’t deterred. “Just try – once. If ya can’t do it, then we’ll never do it again. Just this once.”

The other man flutters at Atsumu’s outstretched hand on the cushions. Atsumu doesn’t move an inch – he remains still and grounded. Around half a minute goes like that, until Sakusa’s arm extends towards Atsumu. Ten centimeters apart, Sakusa rapidly slows down, his hand hovering midair. Atsumu doesn’t move.

Nine centimeters, eight centimeters – he can see Sakusa’s toes curl inward. Seven centimeters – cold sweat gathers in droplets on his forehead and neck. Atsumu can’t imagine what it’d be like to be so anxious of holding hands with someone. Now, he recognizes that Sakusa’s fear was never solely about filth or germs but contact itself – aversion to touch.

Six centimeters, five centimeters. Atsumu doesn’t budge.

“Fuck,” Sakusa spits through gritted teeth, and Atsumu bites the inside of his cheek. The veins of Sakusa’s wrist make him appear blue.

Four centimeters.

The reporter in the TV is the only person talking. Sakusa doesn’t look at Atsumu, but the latter has his attention glued to Sakusa.

Three, two centimeters.

Sakusa’s fingertips shiver above Atsumu’s palm. Atsumu has only seen those fingers around the steering wheel or revolver, firm and secure. Sakusa, who has nothing to hold, seems so much smaller. Atsumu curses himself from a week ago at the hospital rooftop. He should’ve known better.

A centimeter.

The nail of Sakusa’s thumb scratches a callus on Atsumu’s palm. It tickles a little. Atsumu doesn’t dare to shift, though. He can’t ruin this – he _can’t_ ruin this.

Gradually, Sakusa places his hand over Atsumu’s. Sakusa hacks out a gush of repressed air – it’s moist, dampened. Normally, Atsumu would’ve found it gross. He feels none of that as he waits for Sakusa to stabilize his breathing, and when he does, he wraps his own fingers around Sakusa’s. Sakusa swivels to him, puzzled. Atsumu gently lifts their joined hands, and lets it drop again.

Then, he grins smugly. “Got my handshake.”

Sakusa takes two seconds to catch on to the reference. “You wanted this for _that_? A denied handshake?” Despite the vexation which paints his voice, Sakusa doesn’t let go, and neither does Atsumu.

“’course not, I’m not a jerk like ya.”

Sakusa shrugs.

“Didn’t ya say that people die before they can call ya a jerk?”

“I said ‘usually.’”

“And what ‘bout me?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

Atsumu beams. It would look comical to anyone else without much context – two yakuza men with stiff, intertwined hands, watching some Christmas channel together. Atsumu doesn’t give a shit. “Omi-Omi?”

“What.”

“Since ya can hold my hand now,” Atsumu fights the urge to tighten around Sakusa’s hand further. “Don’t let yerself drown when I come to save ya.”

“Who says I’ll drown? I can swim, Miya.”

“Like, _figuratively,_ I dunno,” in his periphery, Sakusa’s lips quirk into a smile. Atsumu tries not to stare too much. “Just grab my hand when I reach out to ya.”

“That sounds like you don’t want to watch me die.”

“’course I fuckin’ don’t.”

In replacement of an answer, Sakusa squeezes Atsumu’s hand once.

On beat, so does Atsumu’s heart.

 _Ah, fuck._ Atsumu thins his lips.

_I like him._

_(“Crap.”_

_Atsumu clutched the gash on his thigh. He was slashed by some guy who attacked him with a glass shard from the garbage can. The wound was throbbing. “Samu, ya awake? Don’t faint on me, yer heavy.”_

_“Like hell I’m sleepin’.”_

_This wasn’t what they were informed – there had to be fifteen opponents, max, which was a number the twins had handled before. There were at least forty on the field, other than the twenty Osamu and Atsumu had already shot. That was practically one fleet of a gang. “We hafta run. C’mon, Samu, thought ya had this area memorized.”_

_“I do, and we’re not runnin’ ‘cause there’s no way out,” snarled Osamu. “We’re almost out of bullets, too. Can’t waste ‘em, and definitely can’t sprint through. We gotta distract ‘em or somethin’, but the layout here is too simple for that – merely stacks of container boxes. They’ll get us in less than three minutes.”_

_“Then find a route that takes less than three minutes, dipshit.”_

_“Can’t, dipshit.”_

_“Christ, aren’t ya the smart one?”_

_They lost their devices in a fistfight earlier, and even if Kita had noticed that the situation went south, it was too late. It was up to them now. “Samu, we can’t die here. Still haven’t gone to that famous fatty tuna sushi restaurant in Sapporo.”_

_“Yer reason for wanting to live is stupid.” Osamu spat, and then fell silent. “Hey, Tsumu, I got an idea.”_

_“What?”_

_“I remember – there’s a blind spot on the map we received. It’s a two-minute dash from here. Straight, left, right at the second maroon box, then straight ahead, there’ll be a chain link fence. Hop over it. We can’t both take that route ‘cause they’ll see us together. There’s another route in the other direction. Ya follow the one I told ya, and I’ll meet ya there, ‘kay?”_

_“How long’s the other route yer takin’?”_

_“Longer than yers. Like… fifteen. Fifteen minutes. Ya have that nasty cut on yer leg, yer gonna be a burden.”_

_“The hell, Samu –“_

_Rowdy murmurs and shouts echoed from the east. Osamu shoved Atsumu’s back. “Go, Tsumu. I’ll be there.”_

_“I’m gonna search for ya if ya don’t come in fifteen.”_

_“Don’t be fuckin’ dumb. Just wait, and I’ll be there. I’ve always been smarter than ya.”_

_Atsumu scowled in disdain. “Fine. Don’t go cryin’ for me.”_

_“Like I would.”)_

Atsumu wakes up on the couch to the waft of toast floating into the living room. _Oh, right. I slept at Omi’s._ He peeks at the kitchen, where Sakusa is stirring something on a pan. The digital clock on the wall flashes ‘9:47 A.M.’ in neon green. “Ya cookin’ breakfast?” The scrambled eggs are golden yellow, coated in bacon fat.

“It’s technically my breakfast.” Sakusa grunts, “I’m being considerate.” Atsumu laughs and boils water in the kettle for hot coffee. They have toast, eggs, and bacon, with Sakusa using the fork and Atsumu struggling to spread the butter over his toast with a spoon.

“I think I know what I’m buyin’ for yer birthday. Spoons and forks.”

“I refuse.”

“I know yer address, unlucky for ya.”

Sakusa munches on his toast, resigned. “I won’t be in Inarizaki for three days or so,” he says instead, “I have unfinished business at Itachiyama.”

“Yeah? I guess I’ll lounge around at headquarters, then. Gotta visit Samu, too.”

He pulls on his suit from yesterday and packs Sakusa’s clothes, because ‘it’s not like I’m ever going to wear them,’ according to Sakusa. Sakusa observes him as he wriggles his toes into his socks and then shoes. “Well, I’ll see you again in three days, then? Twenty-eighth? Ya gonna pick me up or what?”

“I’ll do that.”

“Alright.” Atsumu twists the knob, and then pauses. “Omi, merry Christmas.”

“We shot people and were almost murdered, there was nothing merry about it.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.”

Sakusa scrunches his nose like it physically pains him to cave in. “… Merry Christmas, Miya.”

Atsumu snickers and exits Sakusa’s apartment.

Everything flows by in fast motion after that. Atsumu crashes into Osamu’s room at Inarizaki, and Tendou and Ginjima greet him. Suna walks out to give them privacy, and Atsumu recites a bullet pointed list of the ‘Top 20 Dumbass Moments of Miya Atsumu of the Year’ to Osamu. He does think Osamu is humored, based on how his mouth curves a little – although it’s likely Atsumu’s imagination. “Oh, I also think I have a crush on Omi,” confesses Atsumu, to which Tendou erupts into a fit of giggles in the corner. “ _Tendou-san_ , eavesdropping is bad!”

“Sorry, sorry, I simply couldn’t believe you have a crush on that dude who sprayed alcohol all over my clinic.”

“He just likes bein’ clean.”

“Totally, no judgment here.”

“Yer _judgin’_!”

Fortunately, Tendou doesn’t gossip about it with anyone else, and Atsumu spends his day-offs at home playing videogames and browsing the Internet at home. He does the laundry, searches for a basic recipe online and cooks (without fire), airs out Osamu’s bedroom, and vacuums the floor. It’s the most housework he’s done since he’s left Kita’s apartment when he was seventeen.

Sometimes, he texts Sakusa. He doesn’t respond immediately, but he always replies with something.

Today, Atsumu rolls around in bed with his phone.

**_You_ **

_omi_

_omiiii_

_what r ya doin_

_?_

He peers at his screen, hopeful. After ten minutes, he relents and returns to his games. Amidst last wave of the final round, his phone vibrates. Atsumu scrambles to sit upright and –

[ _Incoming call: Kenjirou_ ]

Atsumu scowls but brings the phone to his ear. “I swear, Kenjirou, ya never call when it matters and when it doesn’t –“

“ _Are you free now?”_

“Huh, now?”

“ _There’s something you should see. Can you come to Shiratorizawa?”_

“I mean, I can, but can’t ya send me whatever through email, text, whatever? I’m kinda –“

“ _Trust me, I don’t want to meet you in person either. It’s because it doesn’t seem appropriate to announce this over a text message. You should look at this for yourself.”_

Atsumu ‘tsk’ed. “Alright, I’ll be there in thirty.” He buttons half his dress shirt and doesn’t bother to tuck it in. _Kenjirou, really? At this timing?_ He boards his car and drives with his brows furrowed the whole journey. Sakusa still hasn’t responded, and it’s irking him. _He never even tells me what he does._ He isn’t required to, and Atsumu knows that, but, _he’s pretty much aware of my side jobs now, though._

Agitated and disheartened, Atsumu arrives at Shiratorizawa and waves at Goshiki and the other members. He’s at Shirabu’s favorite study in another three and kicks the door open, disgruntled. “Kenjirou?”

“I’m not especially delighted to see you either, don’t act like that.”

Atsumu slumps on a chair. “Just wonderin’ why this couldn’t wait. Omi ain’t back till tomorrow – can’t even investigate today.”

“That’s precisely why. I couldn’t have him here with you.”

“What?” Shirabu rotates his laptop towards Atsumu for better access.

“I haven’t heard much about Itachiyama, so I’ve been toying around with their database. My objective was to obtain information useful for Shiratorizawa, but,” The man clicks through the pages, “this is Itachiyama’s member list.”

Atsumu scrolls down. There’s the Kumicho, then ‘Iizuna Tsukasa,’ his status marked as active. There are other members – Yamamoto, Guren, Aoya, Suizen… “Where’s Omi?”

Sakusa isn’t on the list. To double check, Atsumu repeats the process; Sakusa still isn’t there. “That’s what I questioned myself as well. It didn’t make sense for him to lie about it, because then Inarizaki would’ve known. It means at least Kumicho Kurosu had seen Sakusa-san a couple times at Itachiyama to confirm his allegiance.”

“Right.”

“But his name isn’t here. I speculated that this database must be outdated, but that didn’t seem to be the case either, because they have records of lackeys who were recruited this month. That means he was intentionally excluded.”

“Where are ya gettin’?”

“Be patient.” Shirabu types some codes into the empty bars, and the page transforms. “I already knew about this mid-December, so around two weeks ago. I didn’t notify you because I thought it wasn’t my place to do so; it’s about Sakusa-san. I wasn’t going to say anything, but then I landed on this.”

The page is titled ‘Inventory.’

Something murky crawls down Atsumu’s spine. “Ain’t this for recording imported weapons? We have those too.” Shirabu signals at him to keep going. It’s a standard inventory record for any yakuza gang – ‘Type: Weapon, Revolver caliber (357 Magnum), seller: Weichan Lin, price: …’

He scrolls to the third page –

And goes static.

‘Type: Human.’

( _“If there’s a hidden organization distributin’ shady drugs and sellin’ people…”_ )

‘Seller: Sakusa Touko, price: ¥50,000.’

Atsumu feels nauseous.

‘Product details: name – Sakusa Kiyoomi, 7.’

He slaps Shirabu’s laptop, almost crushing it. His vision blurs. He wants to puke.

_(“It wasn’t a significant loss.”)_

_(“We weren’t close.”)_

_(“I hope ya stay like that yer whole life. Too fuckin’ scared of the world around ya, too fuckin’ crept out to touch somethin’, someone. So scared, that when ya drown, ya won’t be to hold the hand that reaches out to save ya. So fuckin’ afraid, that ya won’t be to know what it means to be together with someone else. I hope yer stay so scared, that yer alone like that in yer germ-free circle yer whole life.”)_

_So fuckin’ afraid, that ya won’t be able to know what it means to be together with someone else._

His own words come back to haunt him.

Atsumu wants to scream.

“He’s listed as a commodity.” Shirabu’s composure falters as well.

“Stop talkin’, Kenjirou –“

“He was sold, Atsumu.”


	12. Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK!!! Finals are over, and I can focus on writing and everything else AT LAST. 
> 
> I laughed reading all your comments from the previous chapter. Aren't surprises great? It's fine, none of you were supposed to see that coming. But it'll all be okay, you'll finally get some closure this chapter. Again, I'll thank you all here in the starting notes: THANK YOU ALL for your magnificent comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions! I can't believe we're almost at 200 kudos, that's incredible!! 
> 
> This chapter is unedited (as always) but I hope it's worth the wait. Enjoy!

Bile – it’s the taste of bile.

Sour, bitter.

Something worse than blood. Arid. Arid, but wet. Sour, and even more sour.

“Atsumu.” Shirabu murmurs as he slides his laptop to the corner of the table. “You have to calm down.”

The ’50,000’ in bold print taints his mind. The identical surname of ‘Sakusa’ makes him want to pull his hair out. “ _Fifty_ -thousand?” He grabs Shirabu’s collar, and the latter winces. “’S gotta be a joke, right?” _Why am I laughing, why am I laughing, fuck, why am I laughing,_ “fifty- _fifty-thousand_ ,” A breathy chuckle, “that’s fucking five hundred dollars or shit, ya can’t even- ya can spend that much cash in less than an hour _anywhere,_ ” Shirabu grips Atsumu’s wrist. Atsumu doesn’t let go. “Nobody would, nobody would fucking sell their kid away that cheap, would they? ‘S gotta be a bad joke.” He looks at Shirabu. “Hey, Kenjirou. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“You saw the digits.” Shirabu yanks Atsumu away from him with all his might. “His mother sold him. It’s in the records. He was seven – it’s seventeen years ago, Atsumu.”

“Bullshit.” _Fifty-thousand, I earn at least quadruple that amount when I do a job – fifty?_ “That’s bullshit.”

“You should know that in this world, there are more people who would sacrifice others for their survival than those who wouldn’t,” Atsumu turns to face the opposite direction. “And sometimes, that ‘other person’ might as well be their own child.”

Atsumu screams.

He punches the window. It cracks but doesn’t break. His knuckles begin to swell.

“What difference does it make? It’s not like you care much about your partners.”

Atsumu snorts, “Can’t believe yer able to say that after ya partnered with me before.”

“Even so. You wouldn’t be this shaken up if it were me.” He wouldn’t. “What did you say to him?”

“Trash.”

“You do that all the time.” Shirabu disguises the crack by lowering the blinds. “What does he mean to you?”

“A fuck ton.”

“I said ‘what,’ not ‘how much.’”

“Like I said, a fuck ton.” He trudges towards the exit. “I’m leavin’.”

“Atsumu,” Shirabu’s arms are folded. “Empathy is a liability in our field. Everyone has history. Everyone’s been scarred once or twice. He’s not special.”

Atsumu observes his distorted figure in the spherical brass knob’s surface. He’s not entirely certain what kind of expression he’s making. “Don’t be stupid, Kenjirou,” his heart squeezes when he remembers Sakusa. “He’s special ‘cause he’s him.”

(How the fuck do you say you’re sorry to someone who you already apologized to twice?)

“Ah, Atsumu-san, you’re going already? We’re heading out for a meal; do you want to join?”

“Nah, I’m fine. Have fun.”

(How do you clean spilt milk?)

He knocks his forehead against the steering wheel.

(You can’t.)

“What else did I say,” He digs his nails into his scalp, cursing his awful memory. “What other shit,” He can’t think. He was trying to be funny. He just wanted Sakusa to laugh sometimes. It was a contest. He treated it like one. How many times did he tease Sakusa for his germaphobe tendencies? How many times did he take it too far? No, what _was_ too far? How many times was he pretending to be nice just to get a reaction out of Sakusa? “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ …”

He almost dials Osamu’s number, until he recalls the lifeless form of his brother on that dreaded white bed. _What would I tell him anyway,_ he throws his phone to the back seat. _Sakusa Touko._ Sakusa’s mother. He pictures a woman who has wavy dark hair with moles dotting her smooth beige skin. A woman who smiles like Sakusa. A woman who talks wittily like Sakusa. A woman who resembles her son. A woman who sold her son for fifty-thousand yen to the yakuza.

 _How could you?_ He remembers how casually Sakusa mentioned the death of his siblings. It wasn’t that he didn’t mourn their loss – it was that he couldn’t. Atsumu coughs on the spit pooling in his mouth. _How could you fucking do that,_ “How could ya fuckin’ do that…”

Shirabu was correct. As much as people preferred to believe that the world had more good than bad, in truth, people were more horrid, more cruel, and more merciless. There were parents who beat their children, there were friends who murdered each other, and there were kids who strangled their own brothers.

But even so, Atsumu always – always longed to see the humaneness in people. Because he also knew the affection of his mother who left all her possessions behind when she abandoned them, and the resolve of Umihara Kanako who protected her child even when she was losing her sanity to drugs.

Or maybe it’s just harder because it’s Sakusa Kiyoomi.

He can’t tell.

His phone vibrates on the cushions. Atsumu glances at the pop-up on the screen.

[ _Omi: I’m working, Miya. Later._ ]

He softens. _Let’s go home._

As he drives through Tokyo’s congested roads, he reminisces about the past month. There was a Sakusa who purchased air refreshener for Atsumu. There was a Sakusa who went to Tokyo Tower with Atsumu. There was a Sakusa who rescued Atsumu barehanded. And there was a Sakusa who shook hands with Atsumu, despite his fears.

 _Yer more than fifty-thousand._ Atsumu inhales, “Yer a fuck ton more than that.”

How can he even express that, though?

Atsumu had once inquired Osamu about the concept of romance.

“ _I don’t get it,”_ he drawled, peeling the onion for his brother, “ _it’s not the same as bein’ horny, ain’t it?”_

_“Well, romance can be horny, Tsumu.”_

_“Yeah, but that’s not like, what matters, right? At the core. Or somethin’.”_

Osamu diced the onions. “ _Where’s this comin’ from?”_

 _“Had sex with a dude who was lookin’ for a relationship.”_ Atsumu sighed. “ _Thought we were on the same page. Didn’t think he wanted somethin’ more, ya know I’m not there for that kinda shit.”_

_“I don’t think I’d know any better than ya.”_

_“’Course ya do, ya got someone yer crazy for, don’t ya? Ya wake up at like, fuckin’ ass o’ clock in the morn and spend yer money on buyin’ whatever ya buy for that guy. What’s his name? Rin?”_

_“Don’t call him that,”_ retorted Osamu, and Atsumu rolled his eyes. “ _His name is Suna.”_

_“Fine, Sunarin, then. Ya love ‘im, don’t ya? Yer not a morning person. And yer not nocturnal either, ya just adore sleep, and yet ya sneak out at two in the morning again to see ‘im. When the hell do ya sleep?”_

_“None of yer business.”_ Osamu shoved a spoonful of stew into Atsumu’s mouth to shut him up. “ _I guess I love him. Never really thought about it. We don’t talk about stuff like that.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“I don’t really wanna constrain us to a label. Seems kinda rude.”_

_“Hm,”_ Atsumu didn’t really understand, but then again, he couldn’t even wrap his brain around this whole ‘love’ deal. “ _So, what the hell is love then?”_ He wriggles his toes and shudders. _“Shit, that sounds so fuckin’ corny, screw it.”_

Osamu wrinkles his face as well. “ _I mean,”_ ‘the stew’s good,’ “ _’course it is, I cooked it. I mean it’s – it’s irrational, if anythin’.”_

_“Yeah, like I said, ya cuttin’ down on sleep is some huge devotion –“_

_“Not just that, idiot.”_ Osamu whacks him with a spatula, “ _didja know that love is an illusion created by like, what do ya call ‘em again… hormones? Dunno, but it’s like a chemical reaction in yer brain. The effect lasts three years or somethin’, I forgot.”_

_“Shit’s fake, then.”_

_“Maybe. But people still love each other when the three years are over, sometimes. It means it can’t be only hormones, or whatever. There’s gotta be other stuff. ‘S not like humans can see the whole picture. It’s an attraction which defies science. That’s irrational already at that point, ain’t it?”_

_“I don’t get it.”_

_“Yer dumb, that’s why.”_

_“If ya weren’t feedin’ me dinner, I would shoot ya.”_

_“No, ya wouldn’t.”_ Osamu wiped his hands with a washcloth and scratched the back of his neck. “ _’S complex, but not really. Like, I’d probably skip a week of food if Rin wanted me to.”_

_“The hell, why the heck would ya do that when you like ‘em?”_

_“It’s an example. I’m tryin’ to say like – if someone else told me to do it, I’d dropkick their balls. It makes ya illogical, unreasonable. It makes ya easy. Talkin’ when they tell ya to talk, kissin’ when they wanna kiss, kinda thing. And you’d only do all that crap ‘cause ya love ‘em. It’s nonsense.”_

Atsumu chomped on a pickled radish, “ _That kinda sucks.”_

_“Yeah. But then it’s even more bullshit ‘cause ya find yerself enjoyin’ that nonsense.”_

_“Wow. I hate that.”_

_“It’s pretty nice. With the right person, at least.”_

_The right person,_ he had zero ideas about who he was attracted to. He liked hot guys. Everyone liked hot guys, though. _“I think I might die with a Guinness record of ‘highest number of one-night stands.’”_

_“Wouldn’t even be surprised. The guy that dates ya must be a real piece of work.”_

Approximately five years after that conversation, Atsumu realizes that he’s attracted to guys who are highly sensitive to hygiene, bilingual in Japanese and sarcasm, with the potential to compete in F-1 races. He takes out a honey lemon flavored lollipop from the candy jar and toys with his gelled hair before marching out of his apartment. _Don’t act weird,_ he repeats to himself like a mantra, _don’t act weird. Don’t act weird because he’ll notice instantly. Don’t. Act. Weird._

“Omi,” he exclaims from the gate, and Sakusa raises his head from his watch. Atsumu performs the usual routine before hunching his back to enter the car. “How was yer…” _Wait,_ “… didja get into a fistfight?” There’s a nasty bruise across the left side of Sakusa’s jaw, as well as a cut on the bridge of his nose. “I thought Itachiyama didn’t have risky missions.”

“We don’t. There was an incident, that’s all.” Sakusa retrieves his mask from his lap and pulls it on.

 _An incident. An incident. Just an incident. Fine._ “Sure.” He hopes his disappointment isn’t obvious as he buckles his seatbelt. “I think we’re gonna hafta take it from the top again. Sunarin sent some of his maps and evidence and whatnot. I analyzed ‘em overnight and…” They converse about the case, and the sentences that fly out of Atsumu’s lips are mechanical and rehearsed. Shirabu’s screen, the page, the price – keep regressing – he can’t look at Sakusa.

_Get yourself together, Jesus._

“Miya?”

“Huh?”

“You stopped mid-sentence.”

“Oh, uh,” he swallows, “where was I?”

“How your brother and his partner discovered that most of the evidence aimed towards the east. Do you want to inspect the east wing or search the west wing again?”

“Er,” _shit, I don’t remember a thing I just said,_ “yeah, east. Fine with me.”

Sakusa squints at him. “You’re acting weird.”

“The hell, no I’m not.”

“You are.”

“’M not.”

A relinquishing sigh resounds from the other man, “If you insist. Concentrate on the investigation, at least, your work ethic is your only redeeming character trait.”

“Excuse ya, I’m excellent in everythin’ I do. Except cooking.”

“Sure.”

It’s more facile to melt into the banter, rather than consciously battling with the lingering afterimages and superfluous concerns. So, Atsumu doesn’t ponder over the issue when they drive around the eastern borders together, interrogate the victim’s associates, and eat lunch. He occasionally traps his tongue whenever his attention skews to the bruise on his jaw, before the ‘what incident, though,’ can be verbalized. They had that sort of relationship – the kind where you didn’t pry into each other’s personal life, because it was personal.

They don’t do personal.

“I don’t like pumpkin.” Sakusa mutters – orange pumpkin cubes from his salad sit in the bowl, lonesome.

“I do.”

“You can have them.”

Atsumu savors the sweetness of the boiled pumpkin. _What’s too personal, anyway?_ What’s more personal – intimate hand holding or asking about how a mission went? What’s more personal – being so accustomed to each other’s presence that you could recognize their distinctive scent or being curious about their childhood? _Should’ve learned something other than shooting targets,_ Atsumu laments, _do they teach this crap in high school?_

Abruptly, a memory unveils within Atsumu. “Hey, Omi,” Sakusa turns to him. “Ya ate yer pumpkins then, though. When we had tonkatsu together – it was in the salad.”

Sakusa regards him for five seconds, and then pulls on his mask. “I don’t remember.”

 _If this isn’t personal,_ he feels giddy, _what the fuck is?_

They pay their respective bills and prepare to continue their progress for the day, until Atsumu’s phone rings. “Hey, I have a call. Gimme two.” Sakusa nods and climbs onto his seat first.

[ _Incoming: Oikawa Tooru_ ]

Just when he was able to distract himself.

Of course.

“What?”

“ _I honestly don’t know why you foxes are all on edge when I call you. Are you guys sexually repressed?”_

“Look,” Atsumu doesn’t even want to argue. He can infer that the other ‘fox’ was Kita, and if Kita couldn’t handle Oikawa, then there’s absolutely no way Atsumu can. “Get to yer point. Why do ya even have my number?”

“ _Sources – I have strings and networks everywhere. Quite useful. Ah, my point, yes. What was it again? Oh, you aren’t on a killing spree anymore, are you? It’s a shame, I found it entertaining – exhilarating, even. It’s a blessing to be young, isn’t it?”_

“Yer a year older than me.”

“ _I was referring to the weight of responsibilities which accompanies authority, but yes.”_

“How _do_ ya even know all this shit? Ya have a stalker on me? A camera? A GPS tracker?”

“ _A combination of all – not the GPS rubbish, though, I respect privacy. Networks are critical, Atsumu-kun.”_

 _I’m not even gonna,_ “Ya still haven’t got to yer point. Might as well hang up if yer just tryin’ to rile me.”

“ _I called you to provide a location, be patient. I was able to narrow down some major trading sites within the city, although they’re not in the east or west; the majority of them are scattered around various ports, near the ocean, basically.”_

“And why are ya tellin’ me this? Get one of yer subordinates to do ‘em, ya had some freaky guys.”

_“It has to be you. And you weren’t willing to hear the reason our previous meeting together, so.”_

That’s true. “Where is it?”

“ _Ah, before that, though. How’s your brother?”_

“Fine. Ya don’t hafta know.”

“ _Is that really all you have to say?”_

“Yer the one that called me, I never had crap to say.”

Oikawa goes ‘tsk, tsk,’ and it’s the most infuriating thing Atsumu has ever heard. “ _So you’ve never questioned why Osamu-kun was targeted instead of you? When you were wholly accountable for all their casualties?”_

“Must’ve been bait or shit, how would I –“

“ _Perhaps, yes. That’s an extremely plausible explanation. But don’t you believe that it would’ve been easier for them to kill Shinsuke, rather than Osamu?”_ Atsumu freezes. “ _There are two options they could’ve chosen if they wanted to lure you. They could’ve shot Osamu, your beloved brother, or Shinsuke, your superior. The enemy is knowledgeable about this city and its structure, and we have practically affirmed that they have eyes everywhere as well. Are you aware where Shinsuke was the exact hour, minute, Osamu-kun was shot?”_ No, he didn’t. “ _You wouldn’t, I’m sure. He was alone, not in his office, but outdoors. He was sitting on a bench drinking coffee. Now, let’s consider two choices – who would you choose to kill, when the consequences are equal? A pair, or an individual?”_

Atsumu licks his canine tooth, “But it’s Kita-san, they couldn’t have –“

“ _Shinsuke was defenseless. If they shot in hiding, he would’ve been out. He was probably letting his guard down because, well. That’s Shinsuke’s story to tell. Any ordinary human being would kill Shinsuke, not Osamu-kun who was with his partner. Suna Rintarou, was it? He’s a sharp one, too. They wouldn’t want to fight them. I, at least, would’ve gone for Shinsuke.”_

Inhale, exhale. “… If it wasn’t a bait, then what was it?”

_“I said this last time too, but you’re quite shrewd, Atsumu-kun. You most likely have some parts pieced together by now. But well, I’m generous, so I’ll elaborate. It means someone slipped false information to the one in charge.”_

“False information.”

“ _They lied, in summary. Treason, I guess. I wouldn’t know the details – but that’s the sole possibility. Someone involved Osamu-kun in what should’ve been your doings. The enemy redirected their target to Osamu-kun to eliminate him first, then you. It did act as a bait too, of course, but that probably wasn’t their primary purpose.”_

“For what?”

_“Who knows. This is all theorized by me, but I’m scarcely proven wrong. It’s on you to confirm the truth.”_

“And this location – yer implyin’ that there’ll be somethin’ vital.”

“ _Very likely.”_

“And Kita-san knows about this?”

_“No, but… hm. Not through me, at least. He has his own networks as well.”_

_Even if Kita-san knows,_ Atsumu chews on his thumbnail. _He wouldn’t tell me._ “I have a question for ya.”

“ _Shoot.”_

“What do ya get outta this?” Kita was probably cooperating with Oikawa because Oikawa was a key informant in destroying the roots of this organization in Inarizaki. However, no kidnappings were occurring in Seijoh, according to Suna and Osamu’s data. “I can’t see ya workin’ for camaraderie or friendship, anythin’ like that.”

_“Oh? I’ll have to know that I love all my friends and colleagues, including Shinsuke. Well – you’re right. But I can’t tell you about my objectives. Not yet. This is only the beginning.”_

“Of what?”

“ _The advent of a new era,”_ Oikawa chortles, “ _a new underworld.”_

 _I’ll never comprehend this guy._ “Whatever. Text me the location.”

“ _Alright.”_

Atsumu musses his own hair, groaning. He’s not suited for this – connecting evidence, approaching the truth – that was Osamu’s job. He walks back to Sakusa’s Audi. “Sorry, that took longer than I thought it would.”

“It’s fine. Are we going to Tokiwa Maruko’s flat next?”

“Ah, wait,” A text box appears on his screen, along with an address. ‘ _Don’t go there until seven ‘o clock.’_ “Uh, actually, let’s take a detour. Just got an update from Sunarin. We have two… a little less than two hours. Hey, show me where you bought the air refreshener. I spent the weekend hunting for the brand at the supermarket and it wasn’t there.”

Sakusa pumps the gas, “What update?”

“Apparently there’s a dealer site by the ports. We gotta arrive by seven.” Atsumu scrolls up and down his screen listlessly. _Someone slipped false information._ When? How? Why? He gnaws on his bottom lip until he can taste the metallic tang of blood. _Treason… huh._

Sakusa parks the vehicle in front of a candle shop. “They created their own brand of air refreshener and sanitizer,” a lady in an apron greets them as they enter. “There should be four shelves and a kiosk dedicated to air refreshener over there.”

“Heh,” there seems to be a thousand varieties, from _Aloha Passionfruit_ to _Sea salt Mahogany._ “Oh, there’s _Evening Lemon._ This is the one in the car, yeah?” It is – Atsumu sniffs the test bottle. The fragrance soaked in Sakusa’s car was mellower, though, blended with the chemical whiff from Sakusa’s alcohol sprays. “Omi, which one do ya like? I’ll buy ya one.”

“I have my wallet.”

“It’s called a gift, asshole.”

“I don’t need a gift.”

“Fine, my belated Christmas present, then. Since ya gave me a handshake.” Sakusa catches that Atsumu is not going to quit until he concedes, and reluctantly approaches the cabinets and examines each bottle and their labels.

After a few, Sakusa picks one and hands it to Atsumu. “ _Lemon Spice,_ ” he reads aloud, “oh, it’s ginger. Ginger and lemon. Omi, ya liked ginger?”

“It’s not unpleasant.” Sakusa guides them to the cashier, and Atsumu hums, intrigued. _Ginger, umeboshi, gloves, masks_. He repeats the list over and over. The bottle costs three thousand yen. _Seventeen bottles._ Atsumu covers the bill with his credit card, and dazes at the neon green digits on the machine. _She sold Omi for seventeen bottles of this air refreshener._

_Who the fuck does that?_

“Miya.”

“Hm?”

“Take the bag. It takes around forty minutes to reach the ports; we have to leave.”

“’kay,” he thanks the employee and briskly moves into the car again. He unclasps the air refreshener on the ventilator and replaces it with the new one. The spice of ginger gradually permeates the air. “’S like ginger tea, ya know the medicinal drinks from vending machines? Used to buy those for Samu when he was ill.” He peers at Sakusa, “Why do ya like ginger?”

Sakusa swerves for a U-turn. “My mother wore ginger perfume.”

 _My mother._ Atsumu strains a jovial grin. “Ya liked her, then?” _Fuck, why am I nervous,_ his heart is pounding hard, fast. He doesn’t know how he’ll react if Sakusa answers that he does.

A blink, then a snort. “No,” shrugs Sakusa, “not at all.”

“Oh,” Atsumu relaxes, “oh.”

“She was…” The gingery aroma vanishes bit by bit, as Atsumu grows accustomed to it. “A pitiful person. There was no familial bond or fondness between us. But, well,” Sakusa doesn’t bat an eyelash. Atsumu feels a little stupid for being so shaken up. “She was my mother and kin, nonetheless.”

“Yeah.” _Sakusa Touko._ “Right.”

(He can reenact the day their mother left them in his head; the ominous silence, the mossy stench, the icky moisture clinging to the wallpaper, the yellow sticky note on the malfunctioning refrigerator, and the absence of their mother’s cheapest ruby heels. ‘ _My emergency savings are in the cupboards,’_ was the first sentence scrawled on the paper, almost illegible. Their mother seemed to have intentionally modified all the kanji characters so that they could read it. ‘ _Sorry, Atsumu, Osamu. I love you.’_ They never discarded the note. It was plastered to the fridge till they were kicked out of home, and carefully folded in Atsumu’s backpack until Kita basically adopted them. He half-believes they both planned on bringing the note along forever, if Atsumu didn’t accidentally rip it apart.

“ _About time,”_ Osamu had murmured, and Atsumu has yet to query his brother whether he meant, ‘ _about time it tore,’_ or ‘ _about time we move on from her.’_ Maybe it was both.

He doesn’t remember her features anymore. He vaguely remembers the pitch of her voice. He remembers her shampoo and soap. He doesn’t remember her squiggly handwriting.

Nonetheless, she was their mother.)

“The last time I saw the beach was three years ago,” Atsumu admires the glimmering sunset reflected on the ocean’s rippling surface. “Osaka’s shores were prettier, though. Tokyo’s beach has plastic waste floating around. Can’t look too closely.”

“It’s merely a body of water.”

“Yeah, I know the wonders of the world don’t interest ya, Omi-kun.”

“Where’s the exact destination?”

“Ah,” Atsumu focuses ahead, “Over there. By the gigantic blue container.” They skid to a halt by the box, and Atsumu skips out towards the ocean. There’s a dock extending farther in, and Atsumu jogs over to the edge. Sakusa strolls behind him, tugging on his gloves. “Hey, Omi, ya think there’s fish here? Maybe we can fish.”

“Don’t.”

“’kay.”

It’s a breathtaking scenery – a brilliant palette of twilight paints the water in gradients of deep violets and vibrant reds, oranges. The sun vanishes below the horizon, swallowing the colors with it. Atsumu plops down on the ground and crosses his legs. Sakusa doesn’t but stands alongside Atsumu. “Ya ever used to think what was beyond the horizon?”

“Another country.”

“I was goin’ for somethin’ dreamier, but. Who am I talkin’ to.”

Sakusa huffs. “And I’m sure you had wild fantasies about sunsets as a child.”

“Nah.” He cups his chin with his palm. “Thought there was nothin’ at all. I was satisfied with where I was.” The sun disappears, and the faint glow of its rays submerge into the ocean. As usual, there are no stars, the moon a tiny sphere amongst the clouds. The temperature drops as their surroundings darken, and Atsumu rises to his feet again. “Omi.”

Sakusa glimpses at him briefly.

“Join Inarizaki.” Atsumu’s eyes are staring into Sakusa’s onyx orbs. He’s indecipherable, as always. He can’t see the bruise under his mask, but it wavers in Atsumu’s field of vision. “Work with us.” _With me._

“You want me to be a fox,” Sakusa rephrases, and Atsumu plants his hand on his hip.

“Ya can be whatever ya want. Just bring yerself to Inarizaki.”

“Why?”

“’Cause,” _I kinda like seeing your face every morning,_ “it’s fun.”

“Fun.”

“Yeah, ya know,” his mind blanks out, “don’t ya like bein’ with me too, anyway?”

Sakusa deadpans. Atsumu cusses inwardly.

A distant honking reverberates from afar. _Fuck my life,_ “I think they’re –“

“The first time,” he snaps towards Sakusa, who isn’t facing his way. “I didn’t do it because I bought that air refreshener because of you.” Atsumu blinks, bewildered. “Because you were whining about how it stank of chemicals in the car. You were getting on my nerves, so I decided to purchase one. And then it was the pancakes – they were sweeter than I expected.” Sakusa turns to him. “When I received the signal, it was that same day. I didn’t do it because I thought it was a waste. I spent three thousand yen on an air refreshener I never needed for the sake of shutting you up, and the pancakes were sweet. And you kept on calling me by that nickname – Omi – which I gave up on correcting. In the end, I didn’t do it.”

_(I didn’t do it.)_

_(“I’ve been thinking, Atsumu, but – don’t you think it’s been too easy for you?”)_

“You were always loud,” Sakusa goes on, “always chatting about this, yapping about that. It became a constant, and when you weren’t there, it was oddly quiet.” Atsumu feels something slowly choking his windpipe. “You kept talking about yourself – what you liked, what you disliked, your childhood, your adolescent years. Inarizaki, your brother, Suna, Kita. Everything. And I couldn’t stop listening. I should’ve – it was a mistake. But you were always so loud, there was nothing I could really do.”

_(“It means someone slipped false information to the one in charge.”)_

“So – when the signal arrived the second time, I couldn’t do it.” Sakusa’s fingers venture down Atsumu’s side, brushing his knuckles. “It wasn’t the air refreshener or pancakes. It was that everything was unbearably quiet without you in the car. My body moved on its own. No – I was probably subconsciously aware that I wouldn’t do it since what you said at the hospital.”

Sakusa laces his fingers into Atsumu’s. Atsumu is static, his back against the ocean. The grating squeaks of tires and engines tickle his eardrums. He can’t breathe.

_(“How’s Sakusa Kiyoomi?”_

_“He’s fine.”)_

“I can’t do anything about the third time.”

A gun’s muzzle is on Atsumu’s chest.

Sakusa’s gun.

“Omi,” Atsumu whispers, wrangled –

Sakusa’s lips shift underneath his mask. And Atsumu can’t –

“Bye, Miya _.”_

The echo of a gunshot pierces the night sky.


	13. Sakusa Kiyoomi and Iizuna Tsukasa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that this update took longer than I thought - but it's 8500 words, so. I think I mentioned this in earlier chapter notes, but alternate POV chapters will be longer, and that's why this chapter is the twice the length of my other updates (though I honestly didn't think it'd amount to 8.5k). I was also overwhelmed by the number of comments you guys left on the previous chapter, although I was anticipating some degree of shock due to the twist. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR HELPING ME REACH 200 KUDOS AS WELL! I'm so happy to see that many people like the plot and the relationships I built :D
> 
> That being said, I have a request - please don't read this chapter in a hurry. If you're reading this chapter in between classes or are in a rush (and just came in because you saw that I updated), then of course, it's up to you, but I highly recommend reading it when you have enough time to read it in one go. For this chapter, it's extremely important that you remember the details from earlier paragraphs to understand the underlying meanings of certain descriptions - and it really is a crucial chapter to the story as a whole as well. 
> 
> I'll add more in the end notes, but for now, sit back and enjoy!

The starting point of his memory is when he’s four years old, crouching under a pile of dirty clothes in the veranda of his home.

“Don’t come out yet.” He hugged his knees, holding his breath. “Not yet.” Another five minutes crept by. “Okay. I think she’s done.” He sneezed as he thrusted the heap of clothes aside. Sakusa Ume, his sister, was standing guardedly by the window panes. “Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“I think there’s ham and cheese in the pantry.” Ume was eight then, a little less than four years older than Kiyoomi. Her bangs were always jaggedly trimmed, her hair a bushy mess because she cut them with stationery scissors. “Dad won’t be back till past ten, and mom nine. Don’t do anything stupid and you’ll be okay.” She stuffed her feet into her tattered sneakers.

“Where are you going?”

“Can’t spend the weekend babysitting you, can I? I have friends,” Ume grunted, “and gotta see if that idiot’s doing something freaky again. You stay home.”

‘That idiot’ referred to Sakusa Masaomi, their eleven-year-old brother. “Masa said he’d be with the,” Kiyoomi experimented the term, “high… coolers.”

“Oh, Jesus. Fine. Eat something and be a good boy in your room, a’ight?”

He thought it was normal. He didn’t have another set of parents or siblings to base his judgement off of. His family didn’t have the resources to send him to preschool after he was born, so he naturally had no peers to mock him about his queer family circumstance, either.

What Sakusa Kiyoomi had was a father with a limp, his right leg incapacitated; a hysterical mother fifteen years younger than her husband with a can of beer attached to her hip every day; an older brother who had severed his pinky while playing with other neighborhood kids; and an older sister who was either feverish or not at home. The only people who seemed to be aware of his existence in the house were Ume and Masaomi, as they took turns visiting him.

“Hey, Kiyoomi,” his brother was waving from the window, dangling on the bars bolted to the frames. They lived on the third floor.

“Masa,” he hurried to his brother, “it’s dangerous.”

“Don’t tell Ume where I am. That bitch is annoying as hell.” Masaomi ‘oof’ed as he almost lost balance on the ledge. “Kiyoomi, your hands. Come on. I have a present.”

Timidly, he reached out to Masaomi. What Masaomi gave him was a pair of leather gloves, adult sized. “Cool, aren’t they? Found them in the rubbish. For you. Already have mine, so.”

“Too big, Masa.”

“Then get bigger, brat.” With a cocky grin, Masaomi climbed back down and ran towards the streets again.

However, those nights where Ume and Masaomi tended to him waned in number as years went by. Ume eventually shaved off all her hair, grumbling how it was for cash, and Masaomi didn’t return for weeks, rarely even months. His father was at home instead, chugging down bottles and bottles of alcohol, the radio’s volume dial twisted to the highest setting. The man never raised a finger against his children, never spoke – only drank, his head thrown back beside the radio’s speakers.

The first and last noon his father ever talked to him was the March he turned seven. He was in the bathroom brushing his teeth, the radio booming in the living room like any other afternoon. He tiptoed past his father to get a cup of water, when suddenly, the crackling buzz from the radio ceased. Kiyoomi froze.

“Kiyoomi.”

His father hadn’t addressed him by his name since – he couldn’t even remember. “Dad?”

The man didn’t budge – only his mouth was moving. “Run.”

_Run._

He let the command sink in. “… Dad?”

“Run,” His father’s voice was raspy from the cigarettes and sake, “don’t come back here.”

He assumed it was his father being drunk. He _was_ intoxicated twenty-four-seven, so it didn’t strike him as a surprise. His father uncapped another bottle of sake after that, and Kiyoomi strolled to the pantry again for food and water.

That very midnight, his mother yanked him by the collar, hollered at him to pack, and tossed him into a cab.

His mother, Sakusa Touko, originally Komori Touko, was a frail woman. She appeared as if she could be pulverized with one rough push – delicate, thin, ghostly pale, her lips colored with rose-colored rouge. Her eyes were wide open, bloodshot and empty, her touch colder than ice. Both Masaomi and Ume had inherited nothing from her – it was Kiyoomi who possessed her traits, only softer and less matured. “Mom,” he yelled, but she was screeching at the driver. “Mom?”

Though his mother had never been, well, _loving_ , in any sense of the word, Kiyoomi never resented the person she essentially was. She was fragile but that enhanced the ephemeral quality of her beauty, almost unapproachable. Her robes always smelled of ginger – it was her perfume. He was quite fond of it.

That night, he couldn’t smell the ginger on his mother.

“Mom, my wrist,” she was grasping it so tightly that he couldn’t feel his fingertips. “Mom.”

She hissed at him, baring her teeth. “Hush.”

Forty minutes later, they were at a factory under construction. His mother pulled him along, and he panted as he tried to keep up with her pace. There were men in black with a truck beside the wired fences. “That the kid?”

“His name is Sakusa Kiyoomi. Seven years old. He’s the only healthy one.”

“Seven? Christ,” the man with a goatee shook his head, “well, fine. Here’s your stuff – fifty-thousand worth.” His mother’s strong hold unclasped as the man threw a plastic package at her. “Selling your kid for some drugs, you have guts.”

“I don’t need him.”

Kiyoomi gulped. “Mom?” If he were Ume or Masaomi, he might’ve dashed. Masaomi acted as if he were only living till tomorrow, and Ume didn’t seem to have many regrets about her life. But he was seven, oblivious regarding the concept of life and death, and even more naïve when it came to reality.

Therefore, he didn’t run.

That moment became the greatest pitfall of his life.

He was taken to the north, to an organization named Itachiyama.

He met a middle-aged man who called himself the Kumicho – the leader, Kiyoomi presumed.

“Your worth from hereon is fifty thousand, Sakusa.” The Kumicho tapped him on the shoulder with the sheath of his blade. “You’re not one of us. You’re simply fifty thousand. Do you understand what I mean so far?” He didn’t but nodded anyway. The sheath was heavy. “In other words, you’re disposable. You know what that means?” He genuinely didn’t. The man seemed to notice.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for that swift heel which stomped his gut the next second. He was crushed to the tatami floor, his chin scraping the surface. He couldn’t even cough, couldn’t wheeze under the Kumicho’s foot. “I’m saying that nobody’ll bat an eyelash even if I kill you right now, right here.” He clawed at the tatami mat below him frantically, sucking in a desperate breath. “Fifty thousand is that kind of worth. You see that bamboo tree in the vase over there? The second shelf.” His vision was spotty, but he nodded anyway – _air, air, please, air,_ “When I bought it, its price was three hundred thousand. Now, it’s around six hundred. And it’s a decoration – for, you know, pleasure. Eye candy. Interior design, whatever you prefer. It means you’re not even worth a decoration, kid.”

When the foot was lifted, Sakusa inhaled, inhaled, inhaled, until he saw white.

“I can see it; you’re a bright lad.” The Kumicho smiled. He had the most chilling smile Sakusa had ever seen. “To survive, you’ll have to surpass your worth. Surpass fifty thousand and become something more for us. Not that it’ll change the fact that you’re disposable, but it’ll delay your death, don’t you think?”

Death.

Smoldering hotness, breathlessness, agony – was that what death felt like?

“I’ll be looking forward to your performance here.”

Regardless of what death was, he didn’t want it.

He knew that much.

He wasn’t actually delegated to a job until the next summer. He had learned a couple tricks using switchblades from younger members, but he was put on bathroom duty most of the time.

“Sakusa,” Yuuji, one of his seniors, gestured at him that evening. “Come out. We have work to do.”

He rode on the back of Itachiyama’s truck. It reeked of iron and something else, something putrid.

“What are we doing?”

“You’ll see.”

He wasn’t nervous. There wasn’t much to be nervous about – he survived a year with the sole objective of being alive tomorrow. If this job was what he had to complete to avoid death, then he’d do the job. That’s all there was to it.

He tracked Yuuji’s steps. It was the back alleys of a foreign neighborhood, the atmosphere resembling Sakusa’s home. Or what was once his home. _I wonder how Ume and Masa are doing,_ he thought vaguely, as Yuuji snarled at him to concentrate. Heat radiated from the soil as they ambled past bags of trash and cardboard boxes where the homeless slept.

“Ah, there it is.”

It was then, that something repugnant – the stench from the truck, but tripled – rotting – seeped into his nostrils and mouth. His arm flew over his face as he suppressed his gag reflex. “Don’t overreact, you’ll get used to it.” Yuuji grumbled. “Bleh, the rats got to him. Well, we have to take care of this. Sakusa, drag him over to the truck. I have to ensure there’s nothing fishy around.”

It was a corpse.

A dead person.

Bruised, beaten – bones jutting out, maroon stains across his shirt – dead.

“Sakusa, hurry up and fucking get to it. We don’t have all day.”

_Live, live, live, you have to live, you have to live._

He kneeled and wrapped his puny fist around the man’s ankles. Despite it being summer, the body was unbelievably cold and – hard. Solid. The stench reeking from the man hit him full force, and he swallowed the vomit that threatened to tip out of his throat. _Move._ He rose and pulled, pulled, pulled. The frigid corpse overwhelmed his senses as he took one quivering step ahead, then another.

Death.

Death was cold and hard.

Death was –

Appalling.

He rubbed his palms against the sand furiously once he had transferred the dead man into the truck. There was no blood. There was no dirt, no maggots, nothing. What remained on his bare hands was the invisible scent of death and the icy body temperature of the corpse. Death was on his hands – _death, death, death, death._

(“ _Kiyoomi, run.”)_

(“ _In other words, you’re disposable.”_ )

Death.

He washed himself with steaming hot water in the bath that night, puking the contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl. His hands bled and stung, and the bar of soap was dyed pink. This routine continued for days, weeks, months, as he followed Yuuji to discard the corpses elsewhere. He was doing it to live. He had to live.

After the one hundred and fifteenth body, Sakusa examined his scarred hand dazedly. He bandaged the wounds with the first aid kit in the storage room and rummaged through his suitcase once he was in his bedroom in the attic. In the fourth pocket, there were the black leather gloves Masaomi had given him years ago.

Tears sprung to his eyes as he brought the gloves to his chest. “Masa,” the syllables became mangled as a sob interrupted his trail of air. “ _Masa._ ”

_Masa, why am I alive?_

Three years later, Sakusa was dismissed from the corpse disposal missions and trained professionally to be an assassin; he was fourteen. He was a fast learner not because he was talented, but because he couldn’t bear with carrying more dead bodies. He began wearing a mask and the leather gloves from Masaomi, which were still loose on him, but better than working barehanded.

It wasn’t much of a matter of life or death at that point. He didn’t want to die, but he had also lost the desperation he possessed as a child. When he was seven, he was frightened about pain. An additional seven years from that stage, and Sakusa realized that pain was tolerable compared to the nauseating sensation of tangible death. He didn’t have a future to anticipate, unlike other members in the organization. There was no promotion for him, no benefit in both the short-term and long-term.

In the end, he was worth fifty thousand.

That spring, Iizuna Tsukasa barged into Sakusa’s life.

He knew Iizuna Tsukasa before that, of course. Iizuna was the official heir of Itachiyama, the nephew of the Kumicho. However, the boy resided in east Tokyo and not the Itachiyama headquarters. Now that he was of age, he was moving into the building. It wasn’t Sakusa’s business – he was beneath the ranks of a lackey, and there was no reason for him to associate with Iizuna.

But, as Sakusa gradually discovered, Iizuna was not the standard yakuza heir.

“Oops.”

His first impression of Iizuna was ‘the guy who punched a hole into my wall.’ Iizuna’s knuckles protruded from the bedroom wall; it was poorly built anyway. “Crap, didn’t think it’d break, how cheap is this wall?” The fist slipped out, and Iizuna blinked at Sakusa. “Oh, this your room? Man, I’m sorry. I was just super pumped about being here.”

He wasn’t certain what to say to someone who punctured his wall, so he simply nodded. “It’s fine.” Iizuna welcomed himself inside. _I didn’t allow you to enter._ “Don’t come in.”

“I am already, too bad! Didn’t see you around, though. You a lackey? Weird, I’m acquainted with all the lackeys here.”

“I’m resting. Please leave.” His politeness was from the hunch that the intruder had to be related to someone of tremendously high rank, with the confident aura he had, as if he owned the place. He only knew Iizuna’s name, not his face.

“How old are you?”

 _He’s definitely not leaving._ “Fourteen.”

“Cool, I’m fifteen. Iizuna Tsukasa, nice to see you.” Iizuna extended his hand towards Sakusa. The latter bit his tongue. This was the heir of Itachiyama, blood relative of the Kumicho, his kin. What would be the consequence of rejecting a handshake? Execution? _Three seconds. Three seconds, for death prevention measures._ He raised his elbow and, “I mean, you don’t have to.” Iizuna shrugged, sticking his hand into his jeans.

“What?”

“It’s written all over your face, that you don’t want to do it. I mean, half your face, ‘cause you’re wearing a mask. Why are you wearing a mask indoors?”

Sakusa murmured, “It’s my room.”

“Sure. Your room, your rules. That’s true. Ah, you haven’t told me your name yet!”

“… Sakusa.”

“Sakusa what?”

He almost had to think about it. It had been years since anyone used his given name. “Kiyoomi. Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

“Kiyoomi,” Iizuna tested, “Kiyo, then. I like that.”

“I don’t.”

“My nicknames, my rules.” The boy flicked to the clock, “Shit, I have to greet Uncle Akihiko. I’ll notify one of the lackeys about your wall and get it repaired. See you around, Kiyo!”

He had the understanding that ‘see you around’ was a phrase utilized for the effect, as meaningless as habitual ‘good morning’s and ‘hello’s. Perhaps that was why he was uncharacteristically rattled when Iizuna crashed into his room again the next day, with a bag of fast food and soda. “Let’s eat together, Kiyo! Do you like shrimp or beef?”

“… Beef?”

“Alright.”

It was not a daily occurrence. Iizuna knocked on Sakusa’s door randomly, whenever he was free and felt like hanging around. “There’s no one around my age, and everyone’s so busy. Got nothing to satiate my boredom except you!”

He polished the barrel of his gun and sighed. “I’m not playing around either, Iizuna-san.”

“Aw, c’mon. Entertain me.” Of course, Sakusa didn’t. It was typically Iizuna traipsing back and forth as he pleased with snacks and other unhealthy fast food meals. Iizuna Tsukasa in Sakusa’s perspective was merely a credulous teenager with an inexplicable level of adulation for Itachiyama. “You know, Uncle Akihiko obliterated this gang in the east with a troop of six. Isn’t that epic? He’s the kind of Kumicho I strive to be.”

The only memories Sakusa had of the Kumicho were those about his worth – his price pummeled into him year after year – _fifty thousand, fifty thousand, fifty thousand. Prove your worth, Sakusa._ It didn’t affect him anymore, not as much as when he was seven, unwounded and innocent. “I see.” He replied blandly, as Iizuna blubbered on.

That was really all Iizuna meant to Sakusa. Someone he couldn’t refuse because he was the Kumicho’s nephew – an indirect influence of his power. Although there were instances where Iizuna astonished him, like how he consciously made an effort to not touch Sakusa, that was it. Once the current Kumicho retired, Iizuna was to succeed his will, and that included his authority over Sakusa’s life.

That’s all he was.

And then, Iizuna found out.

He stumbled upon the scene during the weekend, a year after he became acquainted with Iizuna. He was only there because he had reports for the Kumicho from his most recent assassination. With the portfolio tucked under his arm, he trudged over to the Kumicho’s office – and went stiff.

“ _This is bullshit_ ,” someone was bellowing inside, a deafening ‘slam’ echoing a second after. “ _What the fuck is this?”_

_“I don’t know why you’re so enraged, Tsukasa.”_

_“He’s listed as a product in our inventory page. You told me to verify whether the list matched our imported revolvers today, and I found him – price of fifty thousand.”_

_“So?”_

_“So?”_ A bout of laughter exploded, “ _So? He’s a human being – nobody has the right to sell him, buy him, all that crap – he’s a person. He can’t – he can’t be labeled fifty thousand, and then done. That’s not – right.”_

_“It’s business, Tsukasa. I’ve been teaching you about it for the past year.”_

_“You don’t do business with people as your goods.”_

_“Does it matter? He’s very capable. He’s been proving his worth; no, exceeding his worth, each year. In terms of potential, he’s more than fifty thousand. He’ll be under your command once you inherit this throne, Tsukasa, it’s why I’ve permitted you befriending the likes of him –“_

_“Did you know that he’s afraid of touching people?”_ Sakusa’s mouth tastes bitter. “ _I thought he was just – you know, overly cautious about hygiene, bacteria – there are people paranoid about that, I assumed he was one of them. But he flinches. He flinches every single goddamned time I even graze his skin, he’s never touched me on purpose or accident, ever. He has fucking scars on his hands; it’s the kind that forms because you’ve injured the same area too often, usually the skin peeling off. He takes at least an hour in the shower. He’s absolutely scared shitless of touching anything, touching others, he scarcely touches himself. What the fuck,”_ Iizuna’s voice cracked. “ _What the fuck did you do to that kid?”_

_“Tsukasa. He’s a commodity –“_

_“He’s a fucking person!”_ Iizuna howled, and Sakusa backtracked, laying the portfolio by the doorstep and sprinting for the bathroom. He did something he hadn’t done in a while – he vomited into the toilet bowl, washed his hands until they bled, and gritted his teeth through a panic attack.

Three in the morning, Iizuna staggered into his room, his eyes swollen. “Iizuna-san,” Sakusa mumbled, but Iizuna was staring at his bandaged hands.

“ _Sorry_ ,” Iizuna dropped to the floor, on his knees, crying. “I’m so fucking sorry, Kiyo, I,” Sakusa couldn’t process Iizuna’s apology. All that was buzzing through his mind was that Iizuna was on the floor crying for him. “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry I didn’t know, I’m sorry I thought you were exaggerating, I’m sorry I,” Iizuna didn’t go on. No words tumbled out of him as he kneeled on the floor for what felt like ages, until Sakusa coaxed him awkwardly.

“Iizuna-san. It’s fine.”

“You’re not.” Iizuna reached out towards Sakusa. Sakusa involuntarily jerked away. The other softened. “You’re not fine, Kiyo.”

_Oh._

_He wasn’t fine._

Iizuna brought him out of Itachiyama’s headquarters as soon as Iizuna graduated from high school. “You can buy the other residences if you don’t want neighbors.” The older man had changed since that incident. He didn’t ramble as much, he didn’t drop by Sakusa’s place with junk food, and his smile became crooked, not quite reaching his ears. They didn’t discuss about it; instead, Iizuna resorted to forming a pair with Sakusa, announcing that the latter was his personal aide. “You can drive for me. I don’t have a license.”

“Get one.”

“I have you.”

“I’m not your chauffeur.”

“You should be; the pay’s good.”

Rumors drifted through Itachiyama about them – about why the heir of the organization would select Sakusa as his right-hand man. Neither of the duo was perturbed by the outrageous stories which tailed behind them; Sakusa especially ignored the sexual ones. Him and Iizuna? He might as well dip his feet into a sewer.

Living alone was a refreshing experience, without having to fastidiously wipe down the toilet seats or shower stalls upon every use. Iizuna attempted to encourage him into buying modern art pieces and succulents to invigorate the apartment, but Sakusa bluntly repudiated the offer. “Just because you’re pessimistic, doesn’t mean your house has to reflect that,” said Iizuna petulantly, but Sakusa couldn’t care less. A house was a house.

Amidst becoming acclimated to solitude, Sakusa bumped into Komori Motoya.

Literally.

“H-hey. Thanks.”

Sakusa fastened his holster on his belt, sliding his gun inside. “It wasn’t for you.” He was ordered to watch out for other dealers unaffiliated with Itachiyama lurking in their territory. “If the cops snoop around for me, you’ll be the first person I’ll shoot.”

“I won’t, I swear on my life.” He was maybe a high school student, the same age as Sakusa. “Really, thanks. Thought I was a goner there.” Then, “Hey, er, correct me if I’m wrong, but by any chance do you- do you know a Sakusa Touko?”

_Sakusa Touko._

(“ _I don’t need him.”_ )

He aimed at the stranger. “How do you know her?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. She- uh, I’m Komori Motoya. She’s my- my mom’s sister. My uh, yeah, _aunt_! Aunt, that’s right.” Sakusa frowned. His mother had never mentioned her family, but it was natural that she had siblings and parents and the like. “Uh, are you, um, Sakusa… Kiyoomi?”

“… If I am?”

“My parents were worried about your whereabouts, ever since your mother passed away.”

_Ever since your mother passed away._

“She’s dead,” Sakusa reiterated; it felt surreal. “She’s dead.”

Motoya slapped his mouth, “Shit, you didn’t know? Agh- yeah, Masaomi did say you were, _fuck_ , sorry. Should’ve laid it all out for you.”

“Masa’s alive?”

Motoya gave him a wobbly smile. “Let’s… sit down and chat.”

And they did. It had been nearly ten years since he shared a proper conversation with anyone else other than Iizuna, and it showed in his mannerisms, vocabulary, behavior, everything. If Motoya noticed, he didn’t comment on it.

A couple months after Sakusa was sold off, his mother suffered from a seizure and died instantaneously. Her death was reported by her husband, who hung himself at home two days later. Sakusa Ume was the first witness. Touko’s family – the Komori’s, who had disowned Touko when she was a teenager, sought out for the Sakusa siblings after the police informed them of her death. Masaomi declared that he was going to be independent, and Ume went missing after saying something about how ‘Kiyoomi was dead.’

“Ume was found floating down a river in Akita,” Motoya related grimly, stirring his iced coffee with a straw. “After an autopsy and whatnot, they told us that she committed suicide. My mom gave up on looking for you after that. I guess we all believed what Ume said, that you were dead. All we had was a grainy picture of you, so.

“But then – Masaomi tramped into our house one day. I think that was… when I was fourteen, so three, four years ago? I was the only one at home because my parents were on a business trip to Hong Kong. Anyway, he introduced himself, and then shoved this note to me – wait, I have it in my wallet.” Motoya scrambled for his wallet and removed a rumpled notepad sheet. Sakusa perused its contents; it was Itachiyama’s location. “He said you were alive, and that he saw you at Itachiyama. Seems like he had some linkages with the yakuza as well. Although he… he died a week after that, in an accident. Some drunk driver collided into his motorcycle.”

Sakusa squeezed the paper.

“I didn’t tell my parents about it. I felt like they wouldn’t do anything once they knew you were a part of the yakuza. And based on today’s, uh, ruckus, I guess it’s true.”

“Well,” he folded the note, “that would be for the best. Civilians and yakuza should not meddle with each other’s lives. Thank you for the note and the details.”

“W-wait,” Motoya exclaimed, “I, I attend Shiori high school. I walk by this neighborhood every morning and after practice. And I’ll say hi to you when I see you, so you need to at least acknowledge me when I do, okay?”

“Why would I –“

“Ah, ah, would you look at the _time_! I’ll see you around, Kiyoomi, don’t forget to say hi to me!”

Komori Motoya was like an exuberant whirlwind or the sun compressed into a human being. He did indeed shout, ‘Kiyoomi! Kiyoomi! Hi! Kiyoomi, don’t ignore me, hi! HI!’ miles across the street, and shame overtook his pride as he waved back after the same event happened twice or thrice in public. Motoya did not remark on the dots of crimson on Sakusa’s sleeves, his surgical mask, his gloves, or his occupation.

Motoya was simply there.

“I kill people,” Sakusa stated one day, approximately three seasons into their relationship. They were eating udon. Motoya reserved a secluded booth in the restaurant for them. For Sakusa.

Motoya slurped on a noodle. “I know.”

 _That’s it?_ “I thought,” he picked at an umeboshi with his chopsticks. “And you’re alright with that?”

“Oh,” the other boy nodded, like he comprehended where the conversation was going at last. “You mean my moral compass and stuff? What, you think I secretly condemn you for shooting people?” His silence was an answer to that supposedly rhetorical question. “Don’t be silly, Kiyoomi, I wouldn’t have offered to talk that day if that’s what I truly believed.”

“… And what do you believe?”

Motoya sniffed, his cheeks full of noodles. “I always had a keen eye for like, being able to read people.” Sakusa narrowed his brows. “Not hundred-percent accuracy or anything, but I was, most of the time. Nine out of ten, I guess. Nothing specific, just, ‘oh, he’s as asshole,’ or ‘oh, she’s haughty,’ – that level. Anyway, when you saved me that day, I looked at you and thought, ‘oh, he’s a good guy. Good, but sad.’”

He grunted, “I’m neither of those things.”

“You are.”

( _“Iizuna-san. It’s fine.”_

 _“You’re not.” Iizuna reached out towards Sakusa. Sakusa involuntarily jerked away. The other softened. “You’re not fine, Kiyo.”_ )

“From my limited experience, good but sad people aren’t capable of committing crime willingly. So, then I naturally assumed, ‘ah, he doesn’t like doing this.’ There had to be a reason. You’re one of the most rational people I know. And frankly, I could infer that you never had many alternatives to start with.” Motoya smiled wistfully. “It’s a do or die situation, isn’t it?”

Sakusa stilled.

His cousin gulped a spoonful of udon broth. “You know, I think at the core, people are selfish, whether that’s positive or negative. Like, my dream is to be a doctor. I’ll go to med school, intern at a hospital, climb the stairs, yada yada. I want to treat as many patients; it’s my passion. But also, I can’t factor out the monetary aspects of it. It’s a financially secure field in our country, and there’s the social status that comes with it. In the end, I’ll be working for a living. It’s selfish, but it’s reality, right? Nobody can criticize me for thinking about it. Similarly, if what you’re doing is to live, then I can’t interfere.”

Motoya stretched his arms. Sakusa didn’t respond.

“… Is what I’d normally say, but,” beamed Motoya, “I like you, Kiyoomi. Genuinely. You’re a good person. You’re a kind person. You technically didn’t have to rescue me from that gangster, but you did. Don’t even deny it, I know you didn’t have to. And really, because I like you, I’d rather have you alive by killing other people than have you die.”

It’s not the type of justification he would have expected from Motoya. Motoya laughed.

“Humans are selfish,” the boy emphasized, “and sometimes, on the expense of others, we desire for our loved ones to live alongside us. Theoretically, we’re aware that that’s not ethical, whatever. But that’s what makes us human, right? We’d decry murder, war, conflict, but also choose to sacrifice others for the sake of our wellbeing.”

_What makes us human._

“Maybe,” Sakusa muttered under his breath.

Iizuna was appointed as the wakagashira of Itachiyama.

At the ceremony, Sakusa met Miya Atsumu.

No, that was incorrect – he _saw_ Miya Atsumu. He was conspicuous with his dirty blond hair and alluring grin, seemingly childish but also charming. Sakusa had only heeded some tales about Atsumu, such as the infamous overnight demolition of Kasai. Atsumu dozed off during the ceremony and the Inarizaki Kumicho’s speech, and from that Sakusa could at least conclude that they weren’t compatible.

Atsumu had not been the central subject of his attention then; Kita Shinsuke, however, was.

Because Sakusa had never witnessed such an anxious Iizuna before. He squirmed and could not meet Kita’s steel hard gaze in the span of their five-second exchange, and Sakusa was not convinced that that was the same man who had punched a hole into his wall in the past.

“What was that?” Sakusa inquired on their journey back to headquarters.

“What was what?”

“Kita Shinsuke.”

Iizuna grimaced. “You saw that?”

“There was nothing else particularly enrapturing to see in that hall.”

“Mm,” the window on Iizuna’s side descended, and the cool breeze blew in. “He’s the person I love.”

Sakusa almost stomped on the brakes. “… Pardon?”

“A childhood friend. We graduated from the same elementary school, middle school, and high school. You never watched any classic romance films? The childhood friends turned lovers trope?” Iizuna chuckled, “I fell in love with him. That’s all there is to it.”

 _Didn’t seem like it._ “Sure.”

“Never loved anyone like that before, Kiyo?”

“No.” He never had that kind of freedom. Love was a privilege, and affection was an unnecessitated waste of emotions. Emotions were a liability in this industry.

“Ever thought about leaving Itachiyama?”

Sakusa curled his fingers around the steering wheel. “There isn’t anywhere else to go.” He considered the idea more than a thousand times. At one point, he even formed a strategy to escape. The consequent problem was where he’d run away to, and what else he’d even be. He only knew how to kill efficiently. Being a yakuza paid the bills, the rent, even if it meant he was also chained down to the organization at the meager price of fifty thousand.

_(“He’s a fucking person!”)_

_What difference does it make?_

_Fifty thousand or human –_

It didn’t alter the fact that he had nowhere to seek refuge.

“You’ll find one.” Iizuna murmured, “And when you do, I’ll be the one to set you free.”

“The day I’ll be freed is the day I’ll die, Iizuna-san.”

“No.” Iizuna smirked at him. There was nothing arrogant about it, only sincerity. Just like when they were teenagers.

“You’ll live, Kiyo.”

“Your next target is Miya Atsumu.”

The pretentious attitude, the haphazard attire, the tussled blond locks – _oh, him._ “What’d he do?”

“We’ve been tracking who’s been shooting the dealers we hired. It was Inarizaki, but based on the numbers, it had to be one lad. We confirmed that it was Miya Atsumu. Kurosu will send out a message to the branch families tomorrow, requesting for reinforcements. You’ll be the representative of Itachiyama. We’ll signal when to kill Miya; your job consists of deterring the progress of the investigation.”

“Understood.”

He knew why he was chosen and not Iizuna; they needed a backup plan, in case Inarizaki suspected Itachiyama. Sakusa wasn’t on their member list and Inarizaki outlawed drugs, but not buying humans, only because it was deemed as common sense to not invest in risky illegal businesses. They could dump the blame on Sakusa alone, that he was plotting against Inarizaki in collaboration with another organization.

The returns were high for Itachiyama, compared to the cheap price they paid for him.

He was settled with that, as it was not new. He merely had to kill Miya Atsumu, like he had shot those CEOs, those politicians, other yakuza members, and more. Miya Atsumu would be another bullet point on the extensive list of people Sakusa Kiyoomi killed.

He should’ve been.

He had drool on his chin.

And with that contaminated hand which he used to clean off his crusted saliva, he opted for a handshake.

Everything about him was deplorable.

Atsumu did not mask his hatred towards Sakusa, and Sakusa did not as well. Miya Atsumu was the conglomeration of qualities which Sakusa resented – talkative, frustratingly infantile, and conceited. “Yer car fuckin’ stinks of hospital, what the hell,” wailed Atsumu for the umpteenth time, and it ticked Sakusa off. He was not a cooperative individual, and he absolutely abhorred cooperating with the likes of Miya Atsumu.

But, well. He was mediocre at his job.

Maybe not mediocre – acceptable.

That’s right, acceptable.

It’s just, he was so fucking _noisy._

Within a week, Sakusa knew Atsumu’s favorite food was fatty tuna, he had a twin named Osamu and Atsumu was apparently the better one (Sakusa doubted that), he didn’t have a favorite color because he looked great in any color, he was from Hyogo (Sakusa recognized his Kansai dialect), and his alcohol tolerance was mid-tier.

He was observant, though. It was a challenge to act like Sakusa had spotted the fabricated Nekoma bullet on the floor, not from his own pocket.

The plan was to trigger a war between Nekoma and Inarizaki – and with how loyal Atsumu was to Kita, his Kumicho projected that Atsumu would report the evidence to the shateigashira immediately.

Atsumu did not.

He drove right into Nekoma territory instead.

Sakusa could not relate. _What value is there in putting his own life on the line for the sake of others?_ Kozume Kenma was not a friend, not an acquaintance, not even a civilian, he was the grandson of Nekoma’s Kumicho, the head of one of Inarizaki’s rival families. Not that Atsumu could’ve known, but even following Tendou’s revelation, Atsumu dragged the boy to his apartment.

“I just believe, ya don’t hafta let everyone die. Don’t ya think if yer able to save at least one person in yer life, that’s a fulfilling life?”

It seemed flawed. As yakuza, they would kill more people than they saved; it was inevitable. It was pointless to play superheroes because they weren’t.

But the next second, he was contacting Iizuna for Kuroo’s number.

Miya Atsumu had that effect on people, and Sakusa was unfortunately not an exception.

Perhaps that was what caused him to purchase that air refreshener. He remembered the jar of honey lemon lollipops at the Miya’s residence. And something about Atsumu reminded Sakusa of lemons, anyway.

He had Atsumu nap in his car that morning. Atsumu was not even quiet in his slumber, smacking his lips and snoring softly. Sakusa realized that he had not advanced a single page in his book after an hour. He glimpsed at Atsumu warily.

_He has a scar._

Oddly enough, Sakusa thought it looked pretty on him, though briefly.

That night, Akihiko sent him a terse message: _Do it._

He went to the location, where the other lackeys would’ve significantly weakened, maybe defeated Atsumu. He was taken aback by how precise Atsumu’s aim was, but of course, Atsumu wasn’t invincible.

It would’ve been easy, had it not been Atsumu. Perhaps easier if it had been any other day.

But he had seen Atsumu smile gleefully over something as minuscule as an air refreshener, and they ate pancakes. The pancakes were sweet, and his umeboshi was perfectly pickled and seasoned. Right then, he realized why Atsumu reminded him of lemons – he was prickly sour, but left a bizarre, sweet aftertaste. It didn’t seem fair; he didn’t want to kill Atsumu the same day he came to learn that.

So, he didn’t.

Atsumu was warm, even on the verge of death.

Motoya was frazzled when Sakusa brought him to his flat, “What made you think I’d know how dress a bullet wound, Kiyoomi, you can’t just do this to me! I’m an intern!”

“Just do it, he’s injured.”

“Yeah, but I mean you weren’t supposed to save him, right? Isn’t he Miya Atsumu?”

“I’ll take care of it. You help him recover.”

He hadn’t thoroughly contemplated over the possible outcomes of his sloppy excuse to the Kumicho, who demanded an answer as to why Sakusa couldn’t kill Atsumu. “Miya Osamu was there.”

“Miya Osamu? He wasn’t present at any other missions.”

“He was tonight.” There were no cameras to prove him wrong, and the deployed Itachiyama troop was annihilated by Atsumu. It was the only plausible alternative he could brew up from his brain at that very moment.

It was a mistake, and he had taken it lightly, because he was relieved that he had trumped the Kumicho. He did not think much of it after days; not when he was assigned to other missions, not when he was with Iizuna, and not when Atsumu invited him to visit the Tokyo Tower together.

He listened to Atsumu talk about his mother. Sakusa recalled his mother who sold him, his father who advised him to run away, his sister who protected him from the hysteria and violent antics of his mother, and his brother who had gifted him the leather gloves he still wore today. “I wouldn’t know,” Sakusa replied, because he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t know the typical definition of love. He didn’t know love.

He was just – fifty thousand.

“Baby Omi-kun would’ve been cute. Everyone would’ve probably loved ya,” Atsumu smiled slyly. “I would’ve loved ya.”

Sakusa bristled. _I would’ve loved you._

Miya Atsumu, who had an incessant craving for lollipops and pancakes, drooled in his sleep, behaved like a premature toddler, and had the most hideous hairdo – would’ve loved Sakusa Kiyoomi. “As a baby, I mean.” Atsumu clarified, and something fluttered in Sakusa.

He laughed aloud for the first time in his life.

Miya Osamu was shot.

Sakusa didn’t have to contact Iizuna to verify that it was his fault. _Miya Osamu was there._ Those four words had destroyed Atsumu. Sakusa watched him clamber out of the car and rush towards the hospital in a mad frenzy. He had extenuated the resolve of his Kumicho. _Fuck._ He dug his teeth into his tongue, trapped in traffic.

_(“He said you were alive, and that he saw you at Itachiyama. Seems like he had some linkages with the yakuza as well. Although he… he died a week after that, in an accident. Some drunk driver collided into his motorcycle.”)_

The leather material of his gloves felt clammy.

_Masa. Ume._

He called Iizuna at the rooftop of the hospital. When the connection went through, he blurted out, “I fucked up.”

_“… Kiyo? What? What happened?”_

“Miya Osamu wasn’t there,” Sakusa rasped, “it was only Miya Atsumu.”

Iizuna was soundless. Then, “ _Why did you lie?”_

 _Why?_ “… I spared his life.” He would’ve been expelled by the Kumicho, had he confessed the truth. Expulsion by death. “I didn’t kill him.”

“ _Didn’t, or couldn’t?”_

He applied pressure to the top of his forehead. “Didn’t.”

_“Alright.”_

Iizuna did not interrogate him further, and Sakusa was grateful. _Didn’t, or couldn’t?_ He didn’t kill Atsumu. For what? Because he bought that exorbitantly priced air refreshener? Because the pancakes were sweet? _Or because_ , “No.” He whispered to himself, “no.”

He had a premonition that Atsumu wasn’t about to yammer as usual when he approached Sakusa. His eyes were sunken. There was an invisible void in his chest, and it’s evident with how he pronounces ‘Omi’ – groggy, spent, with a tinge of lunacy. He wondered if this was the Sakusa Iizuna saw ten years ago, worn out and hollow.

“Don’t say stuff ya don’t even mean, Omi.”

He cringed. “… What?”

“It’s not like ya ever had anythin’ to compare this kind of crap with. What would ya know, when ya called the death of yer siblings an insignificant loss?”

_(“Eat something and be a good boy in your room, a’ight?”)_

_(“Kiyoomi, your hands. Come on. I have a present.”)_

His throat felt rusty as he croaked, “Miya.”

“I fuckin’ scorn bitches like ya, who act all high and almighty, like ya can relate and shit when ya never had even scraps of the same experience, circumstance –“

 _Masa. Ume._ “Miya, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

Sakusa braced himself.

“I hope ya stay like that yer whole life. Too fuckin’ scared of the world around ya, too fuckin’ crept out to touch somethin’, someone. So scared, that when ya drown, ya won’t be to hold the hand that reaches out to save ya. So fuckin’ afraid, that ya won’t be to know what it means to be together with someone else. I hope yer stay so scared, that yer alone like that in yer germ-free circle yer whole life.”

Nothing hurt. Nothing hurt, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He stood there like a statue, helpless and rendered immobile, as he stared at Atsumu disappear.

And then the most irrational desire blazed within him:

_I want to touch him._

He clutched his chest and gasped for breath. The frigidness of the glaciated snow under his feet pervaded his body, numbing his ankles, stomach, lungs – like the first body he hauled over to the truck, when he was a child. He avoided skin-to-skin contact since then like the plague, not because he was fearful of people, but because he longed to forget the feeling of death, cold and rigid.

_I want to touch him._

_(Atsumu was warm, even on the verge of death.)_

_I want him to touch me._

“Seems like going for Miya Osamu was the wiser decision. Miya Atsumu is rampaging. He’s most likely functioning on adrenaline and willpower alone. A formidable opponent, really. I wish he were under me.” Sakusa clenched his fists behind his back. He had not interacted with Atsumu for a week, and he knew the man had unhealthy coping mechanisms. _He doesn’t get sufficient sleep even without all this bullshit._ “We’ll tempt him. You don’t have to do anything; however, in case he does manage to beat all our men, you deliver the finishing blow.”

Sakusa nibbled the interior of his cheek below his mask.

“Sakusa?”

“Yes, sir.”

Atsumu looked horrible.

He wasn’t grimy and there wasn’t stubble on his chin, which indicated that he had at least been bathing regularly, but Sakusa could bet a million pounds that he was taking cold showers to remain awake – in December. An acrid smell saturated his clothes, but Sakusa said nothing. _He’s not a smoker, if I remember correctly._ He stood beside Atsumu for two hours until he stirred; Atsumu scowled at him.

As they conversed, Sakusa tensed – _kill him. Kill him. You have to kill him._

_You can’t._

It was no longer a choice. He couldn’t do it. He hadn’t even made an attempt, but he instinctively knew, from the bottom of his heart. He couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t kill Atsumu.

He wanted to touch Atsumu. He wanted to be touched.

And that was why he deserted his gloves and embraced the blonde, shivering and suffocating on his own breath in his arms. He wasn’t anticipating Atsumu to be warm in this weather, but Atsumu was as cold as a block of ice. _Don’t think about it,_ the corpse, his rubbery skin, the bitten nails, the fetid stench, _don’t think about it. Don’t –_

“Omi?”

Atsumu opened his mouth. A moist cloud which departed his lips coated the nook of Sakusa’s neck. “… You’re breathing.” He wasn’t dead. _He’s alive. He’s breathing. He’s alive._

The other spewed a string of apologies; it held a semblance to when Iizuna kneeled in front of him, sobbing.

( _“I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry, I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry I didn’t know, I’m sorry I thought you were exaggerating, I’m sorry I,”)_

But really, nobody was responsible for the demise of his life.

_(“Run, Kiyoomi.”)_

“I know. You’re not hard to read.”

Atsumu’s hand was blistered and calloused. It’s comforting.

Atsumu spread out that same hand to him on Sakusa’s couch, a languid smile on his face despite his fatigue. The image of his brother’s mischievous grin as he said, ‘ _Then get bigger, brat,’_ fleeted past in his mind. The leather gloves were on his desk. Masaomi was gone.

He joined hands with Atsumu.

( _Masa, why am I alive?)_

The meaning of life, what defined humans, and the measly, crinkled five bills his mother traded him for; he had an epiphany, then.

To cling to life, to this hand, he had to become human.

The Kumicho struck his jaw with his katana. Sakusa didn’t dodge. “You could’ve done it.” Akihiko was livid. It was amusing, how short the man appeared in contrast to Atsumu, who always looked straight at Sakusa. _I remember him being larger. Taller. More intimidating._ He could defend this man’s blow with ease now. He wasn’t seven years old, cowering on the ground under his heels. “You’ll be the one to have your throat slit if you fail again.”

 _Prove your worth,_ he dictated for the past years, through his childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. Sakusa had proven everything possible, as much as he was worth – fifty thousand.

To go beyond, he had to be something more.

“Have you found somewhere to run away to?” Iizuna smirked, as he waited for Sakusa at the corridors. “ _Someone_ , perhaps?”

“Not quite.” He lowered his mask. Iizuna blinked at him, startled. “I do have a hand I want to hold onto, though.”

The wakagashira snorted, “That’s how it all is,” and handed him a torn piece of paper. “He’ll support you. You’ve said you met him before? He’s boisterous and extravagant, but he’s my friend.”

And that was how he landed in Oikawa’s study, the man chewing on a milk bun from Lawson’s. “Heard about you from Tsukasa. Well, we did some research on you a _l-o-o-ong_ time ago, for safety measures,” he passed a sympathetic smile, “sold by your mother, was it? For drugs.”

“It’s history.” Sakusa sipped his tea. “I need your help.”

“I had a feeling that you were the hitman after Atsumu-chan,” Oikawa flaunted, “it didn’t make sense for them to target Osamu-kun otherwise. But yes, you need my assistance; in faking Atsumu-chan’s death, I assume?” He could speculate why Oikawa was so renowned throughout the industry. _Is there anything he doesn’t know?_ “That boy is quite gullible. You received a location for the ambush, yes? I’ll guide Atsumu to the area. There’s a chance he might share it with Shinsuke, but… doesn’t seem likely.”

“Alright.” He rose, and he felt Oikawa’s stare chasing him.

“Sakusa-kun,” he halted and swiveled to Oikawa. “You were always human.”

 _Clairvoyance,_ Sakusa frowned, _must be true._ “I never felt like one.”

“But Atsumu makes you want to.”

( _“It’s best if we let ‘em live, yeah? We’re all human, aren’t we?”_ )

“Yeah.”

“Join Inarizaki. Work with us.”

He regarded Atsumu, who beamed at Sakusa with the twilight on his back. His normally dark irises glinted light chestnut, strands of golden hair danced to the tune of the wind, the curve of his smile entrancing and – for the first time, Sakusa thought he understood what beauty was.

Perhaps not beauty, but something warmer, something fuller.

“The first time, I didn’t do it because I bought that air refreshener because of you. Because you were whining about how it stank of chemicals in the car. You were getting on my nerves, so I decided to purchase one. And then it was the pancakes – they were sweeter than I expected.” Too sweet for his tastes, but, “when I received the signal, it was that same day. I didn’t do it because I thought it was a waste. I spent three thousand yen on an air refreshener I never needed for the sake of shutting you up, and the pancakes were sweet. And you kept on calling me by that nickname – Omi – which I gave up on correcting. In the end, I didn’t do it.”

(In truth, he noticed. He noticed how Atsumu asked the staff to wipe the table again for Sakusa. It wasn’t about the pancakes. It was about that minor, ridiculously minor act, that caused him to hesitate.)

“You were always loud, always chatting about this, yapping about that. It became a constant, and when you weren’t there, it was oddly quiet. You kept talking about yourself – what you liked, what you disliked, your childhood, your adolescent years. Inarizaki, your brother, Suna, Kita. Everything. And I couldn’t stop listening. I should’ve – it was a mistake. But you were always so loud, there was nothing I could really do.”

(It wasn’t Atsumu’s garrulousness that irked him. In previous missions, killing was smoothly and swiftly done because Sakusa never humanized his targets. They were his means to survive. They were a nobody – a CEO, a politician, a job. A hassle. But Atsumu kept on talking, kept on _questioning_ – which made Sakusa realize how painfully human he was, too. How he was a human who had been degraded, devalued to fifty thousand yen.)

He intertwined his fingers with Atsumu’s, his gun in the other.

“I can’t do anything about the third time.”

He was out of excuses. He could not afford to create another Osamu for Atsumu.

(He wanted to live.)

His gun slid from Atsumu’s chest to his lower abdomen. “Thank you for teaching me what it means to be human,” he mumbled, but Atsumu was static. _You probably can’t hear me right now._ “Bye, Miya.” He pulled the trigger, and shoved Atsumu into the water. The bullet grazed his side – only enough to paralyze Atsumu temporarily underwater and draw blood.

“Sakusa, did you do it?”

He gestured at the surface, where it was dyed crimson. “He’s dead.”

_(“Since ya can hold my hand now, don’t let yerself drown when I come to save ya.”)_

_Reach out to me again one last time, Atsumu._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you might've realized - the one who always discovered a major piece of evidence that advanced the progression of their investigation was Sakusa (e.g. the bullet, the man in the video footage, etc) - you can always go reread some parts if you don't remember. 
> 
> I know this chapter was heavy in both themes and content. Please let me know what you all thought of it, if you'd like. Thank you as always and Merry Christmas!


	14. The Boy of that Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did everyone have a Merry Christmas? Or depending on your time zone, I guess it's still Christmas for some of you! I hope you're all thoroughly enjoying your holiday season! 
> 
> I will warn you all that this chapter has MANY perspective changes. It's for the sake of the story, so I hope it isn't too confusing (or annoying). We're at the climax! Again, thank you as usual for the kudos, comments, subscriptions, and bookmarks - I love you <3

_“Thank you for teaching me what it means to be human.”_

With a hushed farewell, a sharp, stinging rush of pain shoots through Atsumu’s side.

The world rotates around him in slow motion. Sakusa turns around. His senses grow dull, and the sky ripples above him. It’s not quite like dying. His feet and fingertips feel heavier, but he’s floating. No – sinking. Something pops. Bubbles. And – red. A steaming cloud of red slithers to the sky.

( _“Bye, Miya.”_ )

He mouths Sakusa’s final words. Bubbles, more bubbles. _He said thank you._ He reminisces distantly. His chest aches. His throat constricts. His nostrils – w _ater. Water. Water. Water – air._

_Fuck._

His memories inundate his thoughts as he coughs underwater. _Air, air, air –_ his legs awaken, and he kicks the water, swimming to the surface. He realizes belatedly that the red liquid dyeing the sea is his blood. _My hip, my hip, my fucking hip- Sakusa Kiyoomi, I am severing your head once I,_ he emerges from the water and inhales with all his remaining strength – and then clamps his lips. _He wasn’t alone when he shot me._ There were people – _how many? How many were there?_ Atsumu’s teeth clatter. _At least two automobiles. Black- no, maybe dark blue. That means at least two. There was one more. Three, and including Omi, that’s four, minimum. Itachiyama. It’s Itachiyama._

He heightens his auditory ability and stays afloat, grasping onto his wound. Only the clapping of waves echo through the vicinity. _They’re gone._ But he couldn’t confirm that from this angle; the dock was at least a meter over his head. “Shit,” the saline water is seeping into the gash. “Do I hafta swim to the shore?” It’s practically opaque black, though, and his phone will malfunction as it was dunked underwater. _I have to get out._ His body temperature is decreasing; he can feel it. He doesn’t have dry clothes to change into, either. _Don’t have my wallet, goddammit._

“Atsumu?”

Atsumu nearly dives back into the water as he hears his name, but he recognizes the owner of that voice. A beam of fluorescent light roams overhead. “Kenjirou?” He shouts, and the light halts and points downward. Shirabu’s face pokes out from the edge of the dock.

“How long do you think you can hold out?” Shirabu inquires hastily, “I have to check if they’re still around.”

“My dick is about to become a miniature Greenland.”

“You have the energy to spout rubbish, so you’re okay. Give me five.”

 _That motherfucker,_ but Atsumu does wait, and Shirabu returns with a rope exactly two hundred and ninety seconds later. Atsumu grunts and climbs up, and Shirabu grabs his collar and pulls. “I have a towel in my car. I’ll take you to Inarizaki.”

Atsumu sniffles, “How’re ya here? Shiratorizawa aren’t involved, are they?”

“Please. I wouldn’t involve Ushijima-san in such disarray.” Shirabu hurls him a thick cotton towel from his trunk and flings open the door to the passenger’s seat for Atsumu. “How’s your injury? Doesn’t seem urgent.”

“’S not, but hurts like a bitch. Ya still haven’t answered my question.” Shirabu switches on the heater; he reeks of the ocean.

“Oikawa-san from Seijoh contacted me.” Atsumu gathers the shards of evidence mentally. Sakusa, Oikawa. There had to be something else. What was it? “He has a hacker who obtained my number. My guess is that insolent – ah, what’s his name? Ku… Kunimi. Kunimi Akira, you know – Kageyama Tobio’s generation?” Atsumu also makes an acknowledging sound. “Anyway, he said you’d be drowning here. I matched two and two and got four, although there are some mysteries; it’s not my place to interfere, though.”

Atsumu sends a cursory glance in Shirabu’s direction. “That it?”

Shirabu had stated firmly that Shiratorizawa was not involved in this debacle, but he was. That made sense, because Oikawa and Ushijima’s rivalry was not only famed in the underworld but a ticking bomb for both the east and west. Some predicted that the fateful day which Ushijima and Oikawa fought was when the regionwide second yakuza war was going to occur.

“I don’t like to be indebted.” Shirabu says plainly, and Atsumu frowns.

“I solved that last time, when I –“

“Not that one,” an exasperated sigh, “the other one.”

 _The other one._ Nothing comes to mind. “What?”

“When I almost killed myself during the mission.” Shirabu enunciates, agitated. “Christ, you almost ripped out my scalp then for it and you dare say you don’t remember?”

 _Oh,_ that did happen. “Anyone would’ve done the same, ya know. Especially when it was obvious ya didn’t wanna.”

Shirabu squints at him, skeptical. “Well, I suppose that’s one of your positive attributes. Don’t think much of it; I’m doing this out of my own will. It would bother me if I let you drown when someone literally informed me that it’d happen beforehand. Also, you’ll probably need me.” Atsumu blinks at that, not able to process immediately, but Shirabu continues. “Oikawa-san also had a message for you: he said that he lied.”

“Lied?” The frostbite which once plagued him is melting with the warmth from the heater. Gradually, he begins to connect some dots.

“Apparently, he’s not the one who figured out the locations. Whatever that means. I definitely passed it on, though.”

( _“Have you ever wondered how Shinsuke assigned targets accurately to you every day? How he acquired the locations? You’re smarter than you’d like to admit, Atsumu – you can’t seriously tell me that you haven’t realized. There wasn’t anyone in Inarizaki who had a clue about the disappearances before November, and yet you have been shooting dealers since August.”_ )

To be honest, Atsumu had found that suspicious. Oikawa had explained that Seijoh “communicated” with “prospective victims,” and that was how they identified Umihara Kanako’s dealer. There had to be some degree of truth to that statement. However, while Seijoh was influential, that was not because they were large in number. In fact, Seijoh had experienced a downsizing of their organization a year ago, when a new shateigashira had to be appointed. Atsumu didn’t know the details, but Seijoh did not have enough members to interact with these “prospective victims,” those who were scattered all over Tokyo.

Furthermore, unlike east Tokyo, where the four families’ territories were clearly demarcated and defined, the west had more freedom and ambiguity. This was due to the more informal and amicable nature of the western alliance; hence why Atsumu traversed through Shiratorizawa lands as he pleased. These tendencies were further enhanced as Kurosu became the Kumicho of Inarizaki – Kurosu was much more laidback, being comparatively younger than other Kumichos, and so was Nohebi’s Kumicho. The only reason they maintained a traditional appearance was because of Kumicho Washijou, the boss of Shiratorizawa, who was from the same generation as the Kumichos of the east.

Conversely thinking, this also meant that the west was better at identifying those _not_ from the alliance – those from the east: Seijoh, Karasuno, Fukurodani, and Nekoma. Those who weren’t accustomed to the casual relationship of the three western families were destined to stand out like a sore thumb. For Oikawa, then, to have planted his men throughout Inarizaki didn’t seem credible. Of course, Kita would’ve assisted him, but there were members from Nohebi and Shiratorizawa in Inarizaki as well, and they would’ve noticed; not to mention, nobody else in Inarizaki other than Kita and Atsumu was informed of Seijoh’s presence.

Of course, Oikawa could’ve hired men, but for none of them to be apprehended by any of the three families for over four months? It was impossible.

So, Oikawa lying about that fact in itself isn’t shocking. However – then who was providing those locations to Oikawa? Judging from Kita’s reaction, he did not show any other indication that there was another collaborator. _It means Oikawa is at the center – the interlocutor between Kita-san and this other person. Fuck, but then why am I key to the plan? And Omi –_

_Omi._

He dampens at the thought. The unstitched gash on his side pulsates beneath his clutch. Sakusa had shot him. _That was meant to be fatal._ Sakusa originally aimed for his heart. He purposefully redirected his muzzle to Atsumu’s side and tipped him into the sea. _Because he had to hide me,_ Atsumu reasons, trying to be calm and conscientious of his thought process. Sakusa could’ve left him there on the dock for his comrades to see; in fact, that would’ve been favorable and more definite. Sakusa shot him because there had to be evidence that Atsumu was wounded and drowning underwater.

He knows that.

But –

That meant all the times Sakusa had saved him from opening hell’s gates – weren’t mere coincidences.

_He was there to kill me._

_Every damned time._

And yet, he didn’t.

What for?

( _I like him.)_

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut. _Fuck._

And Osamu being shot – if Sakusa was the one who – no, he’s sure. Sakusa was the one who slipped that information to Itachiyama’s boss, or whoever was in charge. Atsumu had eliminated every other assailant at the scene then. Sakusa was the only person capable of knowing whether Osamu was actually there or not, in which he wasn’t.

There was only one reason why Sakusa must’ve resorted to deceiving his Kumicho: he had failed to kill Atsumu.

He spared Atsumu’s life.

But _what for_? Not only once, but thrice – Sakusa had saved him thrice.

( _“I didn’t do it because I thought it was a waste. I spent three thousand yen on an air refreshener I never needed for the sake of shutting you up, and the pancakes were sweet. And you kept on calling me by that nickname – Omi – which I gave up on correcting. In the end, I didn’t do it.”_

 _“You kept talking about yourself – what you liked, what you disliked, your childhood, your adolescent years. Inarizaki, your brother, Suna, Kita. Everything. And I couldn’t stop listening. I should’ve – it was a mistake.”_ )

Sakusa had thanked him for teaching him how to be human.

(“ _He was sold, Atsumu.”_ )

He can speculate over Sakusa’s circumstance, but there’s no way to verify the truth except asking Sakusa himself. In the end, Sakusa pulled the trigger, but it was to trick his companions. He was why Osamu was targeted, but he also rescued Atsumu risking his life.

And – Atsumu likes him, more than he wishes to admit.

Even this very minute, a part of Atsumu burns with guilt over the curses he poured over Sakusa that night at the hospital.

“I don’t think you heard about this yet by the way,” the car screeches – they’re at Inarizaki’s headquarters. “Osamu has regained consciousness.”

“ _Samu_!”

The brittle brass of the doorknob rattles, loosened from the impact. “Holy Wakatoshi,” Tendou’s hand is pressed on his heart as he snarls at Atsumu, “you scared the _shit_ out of me!”

“Holy Wakatoshi,” Suna repeats dubiously from his stool. Atsumu heaves and pants – _Samu, Samu, Samu_ –

Osamu has the audacity to _wave_ at Atsumu, that dumbass wave he does with his fists pumped. Atsumu marches over to his brother, _one, two, three,_ and smacks him. “Ow, ow, _ow_!” Osamu shrieks hysterically, “The fuck, I’m a _patient_ , Tsumu!”

“How _dare_ ya don’t wake up for ten years.”

“It’s barely been two weeks; I checked the calendar. Merry Christmas to ya, too.”

Atsumu bites his lip to suppress the urge to break down in front of a crowd. Osamu snorts and tugs at the hem of his soaked shirt, “Ew, why’re ya wet,” and wraps his arms around Atsumu, though the angle is weird. Atsumu crouches to the floor so that it’s more comfortable for them. “Sorry, Tsumu. I swear I wasn’t tryin’ to get myself murdered this time.”

“This time,” grumbles Suna in dissatisfaction.

“I’ll allow you guys to have your tearful reunion.” Tendou skips out of the room with his folder. Atsumu grips Osamu’s unharmed shoulder.

Then, Suna glimpses at the bloody spot on Atsumu’s shirt, “Atsumu, your side is bleeding.” Osamu rapidly releases him. He almost forgot about that; it didn’t hurt anymore. Atsumu unbuttons his top and presents it to Osamu to reassure him.

“The bullet grazed me. Not a big deal. I can move around fine.”

Osamu nods, and then says, “Was it Sakusa-san?”

Atsumu freezes. “How’d ya know?”

“Ah, well, that’s…”

**# December 28 th, 12:03 P.M., Inarizaki HQ #**

_Sewage sludge._

That was Miya Osamu’s initial thought as he woke up.

His tongue tasted like it had been fermented in sewage sludge for three decades.

His second thought was that he felt as if his limbs had been sawed apart and glued back together, poorly. Something beeped constantly beside him, and it was getting to his nerves. Curtains – there were curtains around him. He was on a bed. His bangs, matted against his forehead, were slightly longer; they were poking his eyes, and it was itchy. _Means I was out for a while._ A small wave of panic coursed through him – how long had he been unconscious? Days? Weeks? Years? Where was he?

He cussed aloud when the curtains were thrust to the side, but Tendou’s face was there, looking down at him. “Hey, Suna-kun, he’s awake.”

“What?”

Suna. Suna was here. That alone was enough to assuage Osamu’s anxiety. If Suna was here, he couldn’t be somewhere dangerous. He was safe.

“Osamu.” Suna murmured, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He didn’t appear much older, but Suna always had a baby face – Osamu couldn’t tell. “Osamu,” Suna was shaking as he held Osamu’s hand. There was an IV needle piercing his wrist.

“Rin,” Osamu responded, but wasn’t sure what to ask.

Tendou sniffed the air dispassionately and shooed Suna away, “I know you guys are having a moment, but I have checkups to do. Osamu, you were in a coma for around a week and a half; it’s December 28th, five minutes past noon. Your injuries were critical; had Suna-kun been even ten minutes late, I can guarantee that you wouldn’t have survived. Do you remember what happened?”

_What happened._

He traced back through his memories. That’s right, he was investigating Inarizaki with Suna. They stopped because Osamu had to use the restroom. Osamu walked in, finished his business, and was washing his hands at the sink when –

( _“Hey, you’re sure Sakusa said it was Miya Osamu?”_

 _“Yeah, that’s what the Kumicho said.”_ )

“I do.” Osamu replied, “But can I discuss matters with Rin in private? And also – don’t tell anyone else that I’m awake yet.”

“Up to you, it’s not like I want to know. Give me fifteen minutes to complete this chart.”

Tendou gave them space as promised, and Suna looked at Osamu expectantly. “It was Itachiyama.” As soon as the confession leaves Osamu, Suna’s fingers reach for his holster, his aura taking a one-eighty shift.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Wait.” Osamu interjected, “Don’t do it.”

“Osamu, _Atsumu_ is currently with him. Atsumu fucking _likes_ ,” Suna sucked in a stuttered breath, and Osamu didn’t even have to hear the rest to understand. “I never trusted him from the beginning. He’s not one of us, he’s from a branch.”

“It wasn’t Sakusa-san, but they were talking about him – how Sakusa relayed to the Kumicho that it was me.”

“What was you?”

“Ya know how Kita-san was giving Tsumu extra jobs,” Suna nodded; although Osamu never told Suna, he knew Suna was astute and would’ve figured it out. “I think Sakusa-san told his Kumicho that I was the one- no, that wouldn’t be correct, since Itachiyama attacked Tsumu once. He probably said I was w _ith_ Tsumu.” _Why would he do that,_ Osamu pondered simultaneously, “Because… he didn’t kill Tsumu.” That was possible. “He needed an excuse as to why Miya Atsumu wasn’t dead.”

Suna scowled, repressing his ire. “And he blamed that on you.”

Osamu rephrased, “To save Tsumu.”

Suna groaned.

“He wouldn’t have kept Tsumu alive when his own life was on the line for a dramatic reason like, he pitied Tsumu.” Failure was disastrous for any yakuza. Assessing the scale of Sakusa’s mission – assassination – the consequences for failure had to be brutal. “Unless he really did pity Tsumu last second, but do ya normally go on a date to Tokyo Tower with yer target?”

“I guess not,” Suna mumbled disparagingly.

Osamu smiled. “I know yer angry.” He caressed Suna’s knuckles. “But if he did it for Tsumu, I can’t be mad at him.” Suna was glowering at his feet. It was a little funny; just a little. “’M sorry, Rin. Don’t kill him. Tsumu would cry, and he’s an ugly crier.”

Suna’s shoulders relaxed slightly at that. “He is.”

Although he never expressed it, Osamu knew Suna cared for Atsumu. It was different from how Osamu cared, but he did care. They all did. “That was why I called Tsumu, not ya. Wasn’t thinkin’ through all this, but I thought I had to inform Tsumu that it was Itachiyama.” Suna persisted, his attention wholly on his feet. “Rin, look at me.”

Inhale. Suna obeyed.

“I thought of ya.”

( _“Not fuckin’ okay, Rin – I would kill ya if ya choose to die without thinkin’ ‘bout me.”)_

Suna’s lower lip quivered. Osamu kissed him. “Sorry. Didn’t imagine I’d be knocked out for over a week.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yeah.” Osamu stroked Suna’s cheekbone affectionately. “Not yers, either.”

Suna nodded once, and then twice, with more faith.

The cogs in Osamu’s brain, on the other hand, were twisting wildly. They could assume Sakusa was technically on their side; he had numerous opportunities to kill Atsumu, but he hadn’t. He took measures to even salvage Atsumu from Itachiyama’s troops, although it was what ultimately led Osamu here. Their enemy, then, was Itachiyama. There had to be a strategy which necessitated the existence of Atsumu, instead of Osamu. Osamu would’ve been elected if it were based on affinity with the mission itself. Atsumu was chosen, however.

 _Then the only reason can be…_ “Rin.” Suna blinked at him. “Go to Itachiyama. We hafta be familiar with their layout, their security, everythin’. Can ya do it?”

“That question is invalid.” His partner smirked as he stood up, “I’ll be back before six.”

“Alright.” Osamu grinned, and as Suna stepped out of the room, he said, “Rin?”

Suna angled his head towards him.

“I love ya.”

The other man stared at him incredulously, but then chuckled. “I love you too.”

###

“’kay,” Tsumu scratches his collarbone, “so, what didja get?”

“Well,” Suna hums, “I didn’t really… _get_ it.”

“Wuh?”

“I received it.”

**# December 28 th, 2:19 P.M., Itachiyama #**

Suna scanned the neighborhood. It was a typical “yakuza” neighborhood, lined with bars and cover stores, where yakuza conducted businesses to disguise other illicit activities. The structure itself was not complicated. _Their headquarters, though…_ Suna scrutinized the establishment. _Itachiyama Express,_ read the kanji stickers plastered to the translucent windows. He had done some research and discovered that Itachiyama’s pretense entailed trade deals, imports, exports – they oversaw purchases between intermediaries and other consumers.

 _They’re pretty weak in terms of power, but they must also have trained members like Sakusa._ He had to obtain information about their security management, some kind of schedule regarding patrols, and a layout of their headquarters to facilitate infiltration, which Suna presumed was what Osamu was hinting at.

He leaned back against hood of his car and examined the building. “Hm,” he considered a couple alternatives. He could utilize the traditional go-to method of threatening a random lackey, but lackeys were lackeys – they wouldn’t know anything that actually mattered.

“Hey.”

Instinctively, he whipped out his revolver and pointed. The person did not raise his arms to surrender, though. “Chill, dude. I was waiting.”

“Waiting,” Suna smirked, “Odd. You look a little different from my dentist.”

The guy laughed. “You’re hilarious. Well, put that thing down; let’s chat in your car.”

“I believe we don’t know each other.”

“We don’t, but I’m here to help Inarizaki.” Suna paused. “You’re Suna Rintarou, aren’t you? We met once.”

That confuddled Suna. He wouldn’t forget anyone this bold. He racked his brain, but there was nothing.

“Iizuna Tsukasa – that ring a bell?”

 _(“We hereby accept Iizuna Tsukasa the wakagashira of Itachiyama…”_ )

“ _You_ will aid us?” Suna hissed and Iizuna shrugged. “You’re the wakagashira of Itachiyama, basically the next Kumicho of Itachiyama. You don’t even know what I want.”

“Well, like I said, let’s take this somewhere… less populated. I can’t have my subordinates see me with you, even if you’re from Inarizaki. They’re on edge nowadays, you see.” Reluctantly, Suna unlocked his car. Iizuna sat across Suna and dropped a USB onto his lap. “It contains the floor plan of our headquarters, the time table for which members patrol the town and building each hour, the list of members; it’s a copy of ninety percent of our data. The other ten percent is inconsequential, just additional orders of weapons and whatnot. It wouldn’t be useful.”

Of course, he wouldn’t be able to confirm this before viewing the contents of the USB, but Iizuna didn’t appear to be lying. Besides, nobody would lie so confidently unarmed. If Iizuna was providing this to Suna because he was waiting for an Inarizaki member to inspect Itachiyama, then, “Are you betraying Itachiyama?”

“Is this situation not a satisfactory answer for you?”

“Why?”

Iizuna rolled his tongue around in his mouth. “Is that important?” It wasn’t. “I know what you want from me, but we can’t have everything in life.” He chortled; something about his overall demeanor reminded him of someone. Who was it? “Attacking tonight wouldn’t be wise, by the way. Most of our core members will be present because, well. Confidential stuff. Tomorrow night will be fine.” The man exited the car and Suna tracked him with his slanted eyes.

Iizuna simply grinned. “I wish you luck.”

###

Iizuna Tsukasa. Atsumu pictured his face; he was the guy Kita paled upon encountering at that ceremony, when Iizuna was appointed the wakagashira of Itachiyama. He was also on the member list of Itachiyama, the first column. The wakagashira of Itachiyama, Kita, and Oikawa. _Something’s missing._

“I didn’t want Tendou-san to announce to our guys that I was awake ‘cause then they would’ve contacted ya; I had a hunch that would mess up things, based on how that Iizuna guy told Rin to attack tomorrow night.” Sakusa had said he didn’t accomplish to kill Atsumu twice, and that he couldn’t do anything about the third time. _That’s why the core members would be there tonight –_ if Sakusa failed the third time, he’d be disposed. And with a yakuza of Sakusa’s caliber, ordinary lackeys wouldn’t be able to defeat him. The pieces fit together.

“We also found out his past,” Suna grunted monotonously, lacking much sympathy. “Sold by his mother. Made a lot more sense why he did all he did.”

Atsumu breathed in, breathed out.

( _“Thank you for teaching me what it means to be human.”_ )

Atsumu comprehended the implication of those words too well, though Sakusa wouldn’t have known. Sakusa had never saw himself as a human before. He was shackled to a price label tattooed to his existence as a child and had never bothered to see himself as more.

Even to Sakusa Kiyoomi, Sakusa Kiyoomi had been an expendable commodity, nothing more, nothing less.

That broke Atsumu.

Sakusa, however, was why Itachiyama had redirected their bullets to Osamu. Whether Sakusa had foreseen that didn’t matter. Osamu was a part of Atsumu. Because there was Miya Osamu, Miya Atsumu existed.

He should be furious. He didn’t owe Sakusa anything; it was Sakusa’s decision alone to save him. Atsumu hadn’t begged him to do it. It was all Sakusa.

And yet – and _yet_. He already knew who Sakusa Kiyoomi was. He knew he was sardonic and cynical, but that he also liked umeboshi with his pancakes. He relinquished his pumpkins for Atsumu because Atsumu liked pumpkins. He was scarred, he was terrified, and touched Atsumu barehanded anyway. He forgave Atsumu for his bullshit tantrum at the hospital, twice. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The moles on his forehead were pretty.

_I like him._

“Tsumu.” Osamu mumbles, “Don’t think about me.”

Atsumu will be humored by that sentence if he weren’t so conflicted. “I can’t not think about ya, Samu –“

“Try harder.” His twin demands stubbornly. Atsumu glares at him meaningfully, but Osamu goes on, “We’re individuals, Tsumu. I will not be ya, and ya will never be me. We shaped each other, but that ain’t the same thing.” Atsumu chews on his tongue with a hooded expression. “Ya were always lookin’ out for me since we were cubs. I get it. Ya had that responsibility of bein’ the older one. I would’ve been like ya, had it been the other way around. So, that’s why it’s also on me to tell ya this.” Osamu beams at him warmly. “It’s fine to not think about me, Tsumu. Not ‘cause we’re adults now and shit, but ‘cause I’m sayin’ it’s alright to do that.”

Atsumu stares at his younger brother.

“Tsumu,” mutters Osamu, “What do ya want to do?”

###

_(“Miya Atsumu is already above average compared to most yakuza members in Tokyo. It’s two of his assets which set him apart. One is his ability to spatially visualize – he can absorb his surroundings and analyze distance, predict trajectories of objects, and furthermore, he stores that data in his brain subconsciously.”_

_“Oh. Like Kageyama, then.”_

_“Nah, in terms of that aspect alone, Tobio-chan is more accomplished. That brat’s a prodigy.”_

_“Huh. Then his other strength?”_

_“His other strength is…” Oikawa huffed. “Iwa-chan, you don’t know why Kasai was obliterated that night, do you?”_

_Iwaizumi growled. “’Course I don’t, I’m not a stalker like you are.”_

_“Miya Osamu was held hostage. Kasai demanded for Inarizaki to pay a ransom, I don’t know how much. The Miya twins were underage then; inexperienced, amateurs, you get the drill. The Kumicho was Kurosu then, but an astronomical amount of cash for Osamu, a lackey… any Kumicho would need time to weigh their options. That’s why Kasai wasn’t meant to be taken down that night.”_

_“But they were.”_

_“Now, Shinsuke was the one who related this story to me, but,” Oikawa giggled, “that brat, he persuaded the upper echelon of Inarizaki to ambush Kasai for Osamu. Declared that he was charging in alone if no one was coming.”_

_“And so, they were miraculously convinced by a lackey?” Iwaizumi scoffed, but Oikawa wagged a disapproving finger at him._

_“That’s not the point, Iwa-chan. It’s the sheer power, charisma that so-called lackey possessed and emanated.” Oikawa sipped on his can of sugared coffee. “Anyone that meets Miya Atsumu would describe him like this, ‘an atypical yakuza.’ He doesn’t prefer to kill, empathizes with both victims and culprits, you know. All lackeys have those traits in their first year or so, but they become dull and acclimated to the nature of this industry within at least a year and a half, like Miya Osamu. Atsumu-chan’s not like that, though.”_

_“I’m not seeing your point.”_

_“This is why you’re dense, goodness.” Oikawa shook his head, dismayed. “People are drawn to people who have what they don’t have. Opposites attract, in summary. It’s not as elementary as that, though. The crucial factor is that Miya Atsumu is driven by desires absolutely devoid in other yakuza; he doesn’t have ambitions which motivate him. His desires are simpler than that – he does something because he wants to, because he cares, and because that’s what he believes is right.” The shateigashira flicks to Iwaizumi smugly. “Those kind of people shine. It makes you admire them. I mean, for a yakuza to do ‘what is right’ – that’s already contradictory, isn’t it? But they’re drawn to that element of incongruity. That lack of complexity, pure and untainted, is what Miya Atsumu has. Or more easily worded, he has the power to move people.”_

_“Ah,” Iwaizumi acquiesced to that, “I’m getting it.”_

_“Right. Because in our world, being strong alone is futile. You must be able to borrow the strength of others.” Oikawa sighs, “But what’s scary is that Miya Atsumu doesn’t know he has that influence.”_

_“It’s a good thing, isn’t it? If he doesn’t know how to take advantage of his assets.”_

_“Please, the name Miya Atsumu wouldn’t even be so infamous if that were the case.” Oikawa twirled on his heels and plopped onto his chair. “The scariest thing is that there is one person who is perfectly aware that Atsumu has that ability, and that they know precisely, exactly how to use it.”_

_“Who?”)_

###

_What do I want to do?_

Atsumu ruminates on every conversation he’s exchanged with Sakusa. The scarce touches, the jokes, the smiles, the microwave chicken.

“I want him.” It’s out of Atsumu before he even realizes it. When he does, he wavers. “I want him.” His voice cracks.

“Okay.” Osamu nods at his twin. “Then what should ya do next?”

( _“The scariest thing is that there is one person who is perfectly aware that Atsumu has that ability, and that they know precisely, exactly how to use it.”)_

Atsumu gazes at Osamu.

( _“Do it; I hate being indebted to someone. Ah, this isn’t for Inarizaki, though. It’s for you. Call me when you need it, not the foxes.”_ )

He dials a number.

It goes through.

_“This is Kuroo Tetsurou speaking.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't explain what happened between Shirabu and Atsumu in part 1 because that goes into Shiratorizawa's story for this series, and also the downsizing of Seijoh, which is for Seijoh's story (just in case some of you were wondering). I saw that some (several) of you from the previous chapter wanted ANGST. Of course, I did consider that route as well, but I thought that'd be out of character with the Osamu of this fic, who is the one who grounds Atsumu emotionally. Either way, stay tuned for the next chapter, the climax. 
> 
> We're almost there.


	15. And Foxes will Lie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it - this is the climax of part 1. I don't have much to say other than my usual thank you (forgive me, this chapter has drained me), but I have to say - this was the most emotionally challenging chapter to write. There will be many questions at the end of the chapter, and I promise you, they will be answered. 
> 
> For now, I hope you all enjoy this update!

“Who could’ve imagined?”

They have formed a distorted ellipse around Kita Shinsuke’s office. Kuroo Tetsurou fondles with Kozume Kenma’s earlobe, and the latter sighs but doesn’t swat him away. “That the east and west would unite like this overnight, after half a century of tension?”

“’Unite,’ is a rather… deceptive term.” Kita has his arms crossed, perched on his desk. “It’s a temporary truce.””

“You can’t be big if you’re petty about the minuscule details, _Kita_ -kun.”

“I’d rather be petty than brash and suicidal, _Kuroo_ -kun.”

“I beg your pardon, but,” Shirabu raises his hand, “I think we have more urgent matters to tend to.” Kuroo mutters something about ‘all the chicks taking after the mother eagle,’ and Kita seems placated with moving on.

There is Atsumu, Osamu, and Suna to Kita’s right, and Aran, Akagi, and Oomimi to his left from Inarizaki. Shirabu is beside Atsumu, and Kuroo’s team – Yaku, Kai, and Kenma – are facing Kita on the opposite side of the room. “Let’s run through what we have so far,” Osamu juts his chin at Shirabu, who is typing speedily on his laptop. “So, was it Nekoma’s role in this?”

“Yes,” Shirabu nods, “because Inarizaki cannot participate directly in this ambush. Kita-san?”

Kita takes that as his cue to elaborate. “Itachiyama is Inarizaki’s branch family.” It means we need substantive evidence to prove that they are guilty of distributing these drugs, which are outlawed in Inarizaki territory, because they are under our supervision. However, Itachiyama has been hirin’ men; we can’t proclaim that they are affiliated with Itachiyama in any way unless we can justify it. Their counterplan if we do accuse ‘em is probably Sakusa – if he ain’t an official member, then they can blame it on ‘im… somethin’ about conspirin’ with another organization. That would give ‘em a reason to continue their business. We can’t have that happen, but Inarizaki can’t take public action of demolishing our own branch family without legitimate proof.”

“And that’s where we come in,” Kuroo receives the baton. “They were rather foolish to forge a fake Nekoma bullet, actually. Weren’t they, Kenma?”

Kenma shrugs but removes a plastic ziplock with the bullet from his jacket. “It was fortunate that Sakusa Kiyoomi was a germaphobe. He was wearing gloves, so his fingerprints aren’t on the bullet. Miya-san’s are, which is a given, ours, and someone else’s. If we can match that person’s fingerprints with an Itachiyama member…”

“Then we’d have solid evidence.” Aran finishes for him.

“Technically, Inarizaki’s Kumicho does not know how this bullet was delivered to us.” Yaku pipes in, “We’re not going to disclose that Miya’s fingerprints were also found on it. We’ll pretend that we obtained this bullet from a spy we assigned in Inarizaki, took it as a challenge against Nekoma, identified the stranger’s fingerprints, and attacked Itachiyama accordingly.”

“It’s a rocky strategy, to be perfectly candid.” Shirabu clucks his tongue, “It would create additional conflict between Inarizaki and Nekoma, at least on the exterior. Kumicho Kurosu can’t just be at peace when a branch family was annihilated in the span of hours. Not to mention, we can’t associate the bullet with their drug activity.”

“True, but we don’t have much more we can do as of now. Besides, the objective of this mission isn’t to resolve the drug rings, but to retrieve Sakusa Kiyoomi, isn’t it?” Kuroo cocks his head at Atsumu.

The divided attention garners towards Atsumu. “Yeah. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about much else.”

“There we go.”

“Nekoma is aware that this is a risk.” Kenma hums, “We wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t for Miya. The blonde one.”

“I know that,” Osamu grunts.

“I’ll clean up the mess.” Kita interrupts, tranquil and solemn. “I can explain everythin’ to the Kumicho so that Nekoma will not have to shoulder the weight of the consequences alone.”

“Kita,” Akagi and Aran say in alarm, but Kita is nonchalant.

“There should be a collaborator in Itachiyama to begin with,” Kita glances at Suna. “Tsukasa, ain’t it? That’s who ya should’ve gotten all that data from. Knowin’ him, he would’ve also included somethin’ about the drugs, but we won’t be able to find that within the next eighteen hours.”

Osamu blinks at their shateigashira. “Ya knew, Kita-san?”

“I s’pose.”

Kuroo taps his chin, pensive. “So, we have at least one… no, two, if Sakusa-kun joins in, on the other side. Kenma won’t be partaking in physical combat. What about you, baby eagle?”

Shirabu wrinkles his nose. “Please don’t call me that. And yes, I can fight, but I have to crack this database to search for further evidence. I also can’t be seen; I won’t bring Shiratorizawa into this.”

“Two out, then.” Kuroo counts, “And the Inarizaki upper echelon can only fight on the sidelines, so that’d be before we enter their headquarters. That excludes over half of the group here. Who do we have left?”

“Sunarin, and I from Inarizaki.” Atsumu skims the circle, “Kuroo-san and yer buddies. Five, then. Plus Iizuna-san and Omi. Seven.”

“Doable, then. Practically invincible.”

“You’re insane,” retorts Shirabu, “according to their database, they have at least a hundred and eighty members. Even if approximately thirty of them are out of commission, that’s seven versus a hundred and fifty. One person has to manage around twenty people, and that’s assuming Sakusa-san is armed. There’s a high possibility he isn’t.”

“True. They’re most likely digging for Atsumu’s body in the ocean.” Oomimi concedes, “Especially because he failed the previous two attempts.”

Kita cups his jaw with his hand, “Which is why it has to be tonight. They would’ve sent out their men to search for Atsumu’s corpse; it significantly increases our chance of victory.”

Across them, Kuroo snickers, like their dialogue is a humorous comedy skit. “What’s so funny?” Jibes Aran, as Kuroo wipes an invisible tear rather histrionically. His snickers fade, and when he reopens his eyes, the atmosphere transforms. Atsumu hardens at the sensation – _a threat._ All his instincts are screaming that this man is a threat.

“I think you foxes are forgetting who you have invited to the party.” Kuroo drawls, “I’m Kuroo Tetsurou of East Tokyo.”

Of course. Kuroo Tetsurou of East Tokyo, the undefeated. The man who had fought against a hundred men alone and came out triumphant, the youngest shateigashira of Nekoma, ever.

“Don’t get all pompous, Kuroo.” Kai’s serene, genial voice makes them flinch. “It’s a regrettable habit of yours.”

“His existence in itself is quite regrettable,” mumbles Kenma, as he toys with his phone.

“You guys are all so mean towards your leader.”

“Well, he is trustworthy, despite being… _this_.” Yaku gestures generally at Kuroo, who pouts like a kid, the aura from earlier completely gone. “My question is how capable this _Iizuna_ guy is.”

There’s a nostalgic tinge to Kita’s expression, which is queer, because Kita is normally expression _less_. “I can attest to his strength. Ya can count on ‘im.”

Kuroo doesn’t seem too bothered. “If you say so. Then – tomorrow, midnight at Itachiyama, yes? Inarizaki will lead the way, split paths after dropping us off, and we’ll commence the attack. That it?”

“Kenma has created a program to track our movements in the base. He’ll be able to guide us through if we’re lost; he and that eagle over there can probably hack into their surveillance system as well by tonight.” Yaku notes, and Atsumu regards Kenma in a new light. _He isn’t the heir of Nekoma, but an irreplaceable member, huh._ “How will you excuse us from Kumicho Kurosu, Kita-san?”

“Well, if my estimations are accurate, it wouldn’t be necessary at all.” Kita answers in a roundabout manner. “You’ll see what I mean.”

 _Tsukasa,_ Atsumu replays how Kita pronounced the name. _A first name basis._

( _“Yer not gonna ever tell me, are ya?”)_

He and Kita haven’t conversed properly since. _Perhaps it’s not that he isn’t telling me, but…_ he lets the idea slide. “Eh…” He clears his throat, coughing once. “I just wanna ensure everyone knows this. Hm, well… I, bluntly, do not give a crap about complex yakuza relations and procedures. ‘M here ‘cause I wanna get Omi outta that shithole of an organization. ‘M not playin’ superheroes, and I hate usin’ my brainpower over difficult bull.” Osamu chuckles from behind. “I’m doin’ this for me.”

Kuroo smirks as well. “We know.”

Atsumu turns to Kita.

His boss smiles at him.

“Go wild, Atsumu.”

###

“Osamu-kun, was it?”

Osamu jolts – Kuroo is to his left, a mint in his mouth. Suna observes him keenly; Osamu places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Go on ahead without me. I’ll catch up.” Suna bores his eyes into Kuroo but obliges and exits the lobby. “That’d be me. What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing. This is our second time meeting, am I right?”

“Ah, yes. Sure is.”

“Seems like you’re injured.”

“Death is a lifelong friend, ain’t it?” Osamu replies jovially, “What do ya need from me?”

Kuroo sucks on his mint. “Do I have that kind of reputation?”

“The kind where ya would slaughter a man for breathin’ with the wrong lung? Yeah.”

“Good to hear,” the raven-haired man sneers, “well, it’s really nothing. Do you recall what I said to Atsumu-kun then?”

“Uh… oh,” he hits his palm with his fist, “somethin’ about his hit number. How it’s not the only thing that makes Tsumu a threat.”

“Mm,” Kuroo loosens his tie, enhancing the ragged quality of his appearance. “I was talking about you.”

Osamu stares at Kuroo.

“You know, how you manipulate your brother. Ah, no, that’s not how I should phrase it. You’re proficient in bringing out the best in him. Let’s put it that way.”

 _Oh, so that’s what this is about._ “I get where yer goin’,” he fumbles through the woven basket on the table for a caramel cube and pops it into his mouth. “This about Tsumu’s sociable personality?”

“That’s the mildest description ever, but yes.” The mint cracks between Kuroo’s teeth. “As far as I can tell, Atsumu-kun is oblivious to his own influence. I was around eighty-five percent certain that he didn’t choose to call me on his own, but that you would’ve triggered that decision. You were there when I gave him my contact information after all.”

“Hm,” the caramel is dulcet and uplifting. “So?”

“I guess I want to listen to your perspective. Like I said, it’s nothing. My inquisitiveness, if you will.”

“Is that so.” The candy melts within a minute. _Didn’t think there’d be a day where anyone would ask,_ “Well, long story short, yer off.”

“Hm?”

“No golden bell for ya,” Kuroo seems intrigued by this. “Guys like ya – analytical guys, inherently controllin’, would view it like that. It’s no wonder. But well, like ya said, Tsumu is dense. He has no fuckin’ clue what he does to other people, ‘cause that’s just who he is. And to be honest, it wouldn’t be as effective – at least for now – if he _does_ come to realize his latent potential. ‘S not like I can mandate who Tsumu makes enemies or friends with. Creating that network is completely Tsumu’s doing.”

“I see.”

“However,” Osamu licks his gums. “I do guide Tsumu in selectin’ appropriate pals from that network, dependin’ on the context. Like ya.”

An amused huff escapes from Kuroo. “Interesting. The eminent Miya twins… I finally understand. But you know,” Osamu perks up, “that also means you’d be reliant on each other. That’s a liability, isn’t it?”

It’s Osamu’s turn to snort, humored. “Perhaps. We were always like that. I feel though…”

_(“Ya ever think what we would’ve been if weren’t twins?”_

“ _The hell’s the point in thinkin’ ‘bout that? We’re already born.”_

“ _That’s why it’s an ‘if,’ ya dipshit, how are ya literate?”_

_“I mean, can’t be the same, right? We kinda do everythin’ together.”_

_“Yeah.”)_

“We’ll still be us, till the day we won’t need each other.”

Kuroo nods for a while, enlightened. “Nice answer.”

_Until the day we won’t need each other._

###

After everyone files out of Kita’s office, Atsumu is the sole individual who persists, rooted to the armchair in the corner. Kita doesn’t dismiss him, either. He’s flipping through the paperwork on his desk, signing on the bottom of the pages. He’s patient; Kita’s always been patient.

“Kita-san.”

Kita’s pen stops, and so does the scribbling noise of ink on paper. He can sense Kita concentrating on him, but he can’t face the man.

“Can ya just listen to me? ‘Cause I’m about to vomit a load of crap on ya. Not literally, but.”

A definitive ‘clack’ resounds as the pen is dropped.

“I requested Kenjirou to affirm somethin’. Yer high school graduation records.” He clenches and unclenches his fists repeatedly on his knees, rocking back and forth. It’s nauseating, so he plants his heels to the floor. “I saw that ya graduated with Oikawa, his aide, and Iizuna-san.” Kita doesn’t correct him. “The stuff I say from hereon is all speculation. I- no. Oikawa said he wasn’t the one who figured out the locations. That implied there had to be someone else. Could be anyone, of course, but there are only two logical alternatives. One, a high-ranking member of another family with a ton of henchmen, or two, an authority from Itachiyama.

“The first option doesn’t make sense though, for the same reason why Oikawa being responsible for providing the locations is absurd. Someone from the west would’ve noticed their presence and the issue would’ve been addressed by the alliance. The second option, then – an authority from Itachiyama. Itachiyama hasn’t elected a shateigashira, they only have a wakagashira currently active: Iizuna Tsukasa.” Atsumu swallows. “Ya used his given name. Ya hafta be close, then; associates, maybe. Well-acquainted. When I thought about it like that, everythin’ clicked. It’s not that ya didn’t inform the Kumicho or anyone else – ya couldn’t.”

He peers up at Kita.

The man hasn’t budged, but there’s something in his orbs, something incomprehensible and profound.

“Ya probably realized halfway through that it was Iizuna-san, not Oikawa-san, offerin’ this information to ya. Ya wouldn’t have told the Kumicho before partially ‘cause of Oikawa, but as aforementioned in the meeting, there was no solid evidence that Itachiyama was involved. But ya _couldn’t_ report to Kumicho after ya knew, ‘cause then the Kumicho would’ve aimed for Iizuna-san.”

Kita’s eyelashes flutter as he shuts them with a shuddered exhale. Atsumu winces sympathetically.

“The investigation would’ve progressed too fast for ya to do anythin’, once there was a suspect to target. That’s why ya delayed it as much as possible and had only me killin’ the dealers discreetly. The Kumicho wouldn’t have minded whether Iizuna-san was on our side or not.” Their world was not that merciful. “He must matter to ya a lot, Kita-san.”

Kita’s lips quirk. “He does.”

Atsumu sighs, “I only connected everythin’ like an hour ago. I guess I, I mean, I gotcha. But then I also wondered why ya couldn’t tell me, at least. I wouldn’t have belittled ya for it. I could never. Contemplated about it a little more, though, about what I would’ve done if I were ya. Whether I would’ve told myself.” He smiles ruefully. “I wouldn’t have, too.”

The shateigashira breathes in through his nostrils. “It’s cowardly.”

“’S not, Kita-san.”

“It really is.” There’s a self-deprecating edge to Kita’s words. “Although you were wrong in one area: the reason ya were the one chosen to do the jobs. Ya were a chess piece on their strategic game – Tooru and Tsukasa’s. It’s an ingenious plan. But that wasn’t why I went along with it.” Kita looks at Atsumu. “It had to be ya ‘cause I trusted ya the most, Atsumu. I had no other reason.”

( _“’S fine. It’s not like I can stop trustin’ ya, just like that.”_ )

 _Fuck,_ something prickles from the back of his head and his toes. _Don’t cry, fuck._

“’M sorry I can’t tell ya about Tsukasa.”

Atsumu shakes his head fiercely. “That doesn’t- I wasn’t sane when I spew out all that shit to ya, I –“

“I know, Atsumu. It’s fine. How long have we been together? I can read ya better than anyone, sans Osamu.”

(“ _I’ll be back, Atsumu.”_ )

“Do ya mind passin’ on a message to Tsukasa tonight?” Atsumu blinks at Kita. “Tell ‘im that I feel the same.”

He sniffles. “Is that all?”

“He’ll get what I mean.”

“Okay.” He scrambles to his feet and rubs his face with his sleeve. “Kita-san?”

“Hm?”

“No matter what anyone says, yer the best man I know.” The teenager who coaxed Atsumu out of robbing that bank and ruining his adolescent years in juvenile homes; the high schooler who spent countless hours teaching the twins math equations and chemical formulas they never memorized; the boy who was beaten black and blue for the sake of the Miya brothers, who he wasn’t even related by blood; perhaps not the sturdiest, not the fastest, nor the shrewdest yakuza, but the most righteous man, the most respectable man Miya Atsumu knew – a man he’d proudly die for – he is Kita Shinsuke.

Kita smiles humbly.

“Thank you, Atsumu.”

“We’re a kilometer from their headquarters. How’s the count lookin’, Kenjirou?”

“ _Kozume-san and I have been keeping note of all their whereabouts. Twenty-six are by the ports and beaches – Yaku-san, Akagi-san, Aran-san, Oomimi-san, and Kita-san have gone after them. I’ll be deleting their personal information and relevant data from their main database; we managed to hack into it. They’re all lackeys, so it wouldn’t be strange if they vanish into dust. One hundred and fifty-four, including both Iizuna-san and Sakusa-san, should be at their base.”_

“Roger that.” Atsumu relays this news to Suna, who’s driving, and Kuroo and Kai.

“Yaku will be with us after he’s done. Shouldn’t be more than two hours, because it’s Yaku.” Kai supplies, and Atsumu nods.

“ _I would advise you four to stick together until you meet Sakusa-san or Iizuna-san. Don’t be reckless, don’t act on your own. Kozume-san has placed an emphasis on Kuroo-san for that last part.”_

“Me? Kenma, have more faith!”

“Five hundred meters,” Suna interjects with his robotic tone.

“ _Don’t turn off your earpieces. We can’t support you otherwise.”_

“Gotcha, gotcha. Gee, yer fussy, Kenjirou.”

_“I’m doing you a favor.”_

“Three hundred meters.”

“ _Rule one, don’t be stupid. Rule two, don’t do anything which alerts the police.”_

“Any more, mom?”

“ _Don’t call me mom.”_

“Fifty meters.”

“ _Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,”_ Kenma grumbles from the speaker. Kuroo cackles at that. The car skids to a halt a block away from the headquarters.

“Well, here we are.”

Atsumu shoves the bulletproof double doors – it’s unlocked. _Iizuna Tsukasa, huh._ Or Shirabu and Kenma wrecking the security system, it had to be one of the two. Not that it made a critical difference to their progress.

The lobby is vacant and unlit. It’s like a standard company, with a reception desk and a guest room, and a magazine rack stacked with global economy newspaper articles and business journals. “ _The route to the second floor is seven meters ahead, and then to your right.”_ They move in silence, their footsteps essentially muted. “ _There should be a lock. The passcode is 4018.”_ Kai presses the buttons, and they’re able to push the door.

There’s a staircase spiraling up to the second floor. “And ya dunno where Omi is,” Atsumu mumbles. “Would make my life easier.”

“ _Life isn’t easy, Atsumu.”_

“Gee, thanks.”

Then – “Hey, who the fuck are you guys?”

Kuroo mutters under his breath, enticed, “The game starts, boys.”

 _One on the fourth step. Another one on the landing to the second floor. One directly above us._ “Sunarin, _up_!” Suna doesn’t even hesitate and shoots with his wrist arched, pointing at the ceiling but angled backward. A yelp. _One out of three._

There’s not much to do, really.

Kuroo leaps into the air – his flexible stature resembles that of a street cat, agile – and kicks off a wall, fires once midair, and swiftly twists his body as he lands on the other diagonal half of the staircase. With a ‘bang,’ all three are dead.

_Kuroo Tetsurou, the undefeated, indeed._

“He’s barely at five percent, by the way,” says Kai, and Atsumu snorts.

“Yeah, thought so.”

Saving Kozume Kenma from that kidnapper was one of the smartest things Miya Atsumu has ever done.

They huddle around the entrance. “None,” Suna remarks curtly. That was a problem; it’s preferable to tackle them all at once than to have them attack one by one. That would be incredibly draining.

“Give me some space.” Kuroo announces and steps forward, into the empty corridor. He scans the region and beams crookedly at the ceiling. “There we go.” He points at the emergency sprinklers, and shoots. Atsumu almost shouts as water drizzles over the tiles, rapidly forming a puddle beneath their feet. An alarm is activated.

“What the fuck, man –“

“Shh,” the feline shushes them, a finger over his lips.

Raucous, unruly shrieks and roars can be heeded way down the corridor. _Twenty? No. At least thirty._ At least thirty are headed towards them. “Step away,” Kai cautions them, as Kuroo stands outside. _Jesus Christ._ Something emerges within him as he watches the water pool, flowing everywhere. _Don’t tell me he’s gonna –_

“Does anyone like fireworks?” Exclaims Kuroo – a taser in his grasp. _Water. Electricity._ “Because I do.”

He tosses the taser onto the floor.

Deafening screams reverberate throughout the building, causing Atsumu’s surroundings to vibrate.

_He’s absolutely crazy._

Once again: Kuroo Tetsurou, the undefeated.

“Come on, come on.” The male gestures at the trio, “This is the opportunity to kill them at once. See them writhing in that puddle? Ah, don’t approach it, electrocution through tap water can be pretty lethal.” Kuroo’s quick and precise as he kills the remnants of the group. “Well? Let’s advance.”

“Remind me to not have sex with Osamu at Nekoma again.”

Atsumu groans. “Just don’t fuckin’ do it in public, man.”

“The taser will automatically turn off within an hour; not that I can do anything about the sprinklers. We can’t ransack this floor right now, so let’s head to the next.”

“Wasn’t rule two or somethin’, ‘don’t do anythin’ that alerts the police’?”

Suna loads his gun, “You skipped rule one: don’t be stupid.”

“Hey, we can’t squander our stamina on some lackeys, we only have until dawn,” Kuroo whistles, and Atsumu concludes that ‘psycho’ might as well be his middle name. “And according to the layout, this floor is comprised of meeting rooms and department offices – an illusion set up for dogs with sharp noses. Sakusa-kun wouldn’t be confined here.”

“Kenjirou?”

_“We’re looking at the layout as well. Kuroo-san’s right, chances are low that he’d be on the second floor. There are three rooms – two are square and are situated in the south, and one is ovular – it’s the last room to the left. There’s a fourth level as well, and the design is more sophisticated there.”_

Kuroo adjusts his earpiece, “Well, let’s see if Yakkun arrives before we venture the fourth. We shouldn’t separate, yeah?”

“ _Yes.”_

“There are eleven in the hallway,” Kai peeks out through the agape door, leaning flat against the wall. The trio climb the stairs with hunched stances. “I’ll signal when to charge. Suna-kun, you’re fine with long ranges too, aren’t you?”

“Mm.”

“Then stick with me; the ones to the right are a couple more meters farther away.” Suna shifts closer to Kai, and Kuroo sniggers at Atsumu.

“Don’t hold me back, Atsumu-kun.”

“Right back at ya.”

“Now!”

 _Three meters. Five meters, ten o’clock. Three by the windows._ If he aimed for the windows, that could attract pedestrians on the streets, especially in yakuza neighborhoods. Kuroo must’ve reached the same conclusion, as he strays from the lengthy rectangular frames.

“That’s Kuroo Tetsurou –“

“One of the Miya twins, wasn’t he supposed to be –“

“Fuck, Sakusa that _bastard_ –“

Atsumu licks the inside of his cheeks. _Nuh-uh,_ he pulls the trigger in rapid succession. One, two, three headshots. He leers as he ceremoniously blows at the nonexistent smoke from the muzzle, like what those agents did in Hollywood action movies. Kuroo snorts at that. “Not bad, Atsumu-kun. Perfect headshots.”

“Not _bad_?”

“I did say they were perfect afterward, chill.”

They kill around thirteen more here and there as they crash into the three rooms. Sakusa isn’t in any of them. “ _We have to shorten the delay as much as possible_.” Shirabu urges into the microphone, “ _It’ll be a pain if their Kumicho or some other superior has heard of the infiltration already. None of their security systems have been reacting, but they’ll notice sooner or later. We can’t have Kumicho Akihiko attempting to call Kumicho Kurosu, or even worse, to request for Inarizaki reinforcements. Then the whole Nekoma bullet pretense will be dismantled.”_

“Yeah.” Atsumu nibbles on his cuticles. _Where would Omi be, where would Omi be…_ it’s not like Sakusa ever mentioned his experience at Itachiyama, which was understandable. _Crap, we already wasted an hour and a half._

“ _Hey.”_ The voice in the earpiece becomes softer – it’s Kenma. “ _Let’s switch gears. Divide into groups.”_

“Hah?”

“ _Mori is currently at the lobby. He said their mission is complete – the lackeys on the shores and ports were exterminated. Nekoma’s team will dispose the bodies. Now, on the layout, there’s a basement. It’s not compartmentalized, it’s one huge open space. There’s a possibility that this is their inventory for the drugs. If the bullet excuse goes to shit, we can at least retrieve some packages as proof, since Nekoma has had kidnappings occur recently as well. It’ll be better than nothing, although it wouldn’t resolve matters between Nekoma and Inarizaki.”_

“So, two teams,” Kuroo condenses the plan, “One for Sakusa-kun, and another for the drugs.”

“ _Right.”_

“Okay. Then Nekoma will join Yakkun at the lobby and sneak into the basement inventory. Kenma, lead the way.”

Shirabu takes over, _“I’ll be guiding Inarizaki to Sakusa-san, then. Beware that we don’t know how many troops are on the top floors or basement.”_

“We’ll message you once we’re done.”

“Yeah, don’t die.”

“You too, Atsumu.”

Kuroo and Kai glide down the stairs, footsteps inaudible. _Must be a cat thing._ “So, Kenjirou?”

_“For the sake of time, skip the fifth and sixth levels. Traveling down than up is more effective in terms of offense, and the Kumicho’s study is labeled as the fifth floor here. We don’t want him to spot us now.”_

Atsumu grinds his teeth as he sprints to the seventh floor – _man, I despise stairs._ He’s relieved that he has gotten used to the obscurity, though; it was arduous and a pain in the ass to approximate distances in the dark, not that he missed, but still.

“By the way,” Suna speaks, unaffected by the dash, his breathing evenly paced. “Out of proper etiquette, I feel obligated to ask for your permission to punch him in the face. Once will do, although twice is tempting.”

“Oh,” _Samu, of course. He doesn’t appear enthralled to be here, anyway._ “Sure. Not his face, though. I like his face.”

“The pit of his stomach.”

“Granted.”

“Thanks.”

 _I never thought about what I’d say to him,_ he realizes. _What do you normally say after the person you like has shot you and shoved you into the sea in fucking December? Oh, wait. He doesn’t know that I like him. Damn._ “Hey, Sunarin,” Suna hums noncommittally, “what didja tell Samu when ya broke into our building? Y’know, when ya destroyed our door.”

“Ah…” he trails off, “I don’t remember.”

“ _Sunarin_.”

“It was five or six years ago; contrary to common belief, I don’t inscribe every single sentence Osamu has uttered to me in my heart.” Suna quips wryly, but then, “He cried, though.”

“Samu _what_?”

“He cried, and then we kissed. Can’t recall the rest.”

“Hm,” while Osamu crying has him momentarily dumbfounded, “thought it’d be more sensational and cheesy. Confessions and all.”

“Just tell him what you want to say.” Suna twirls his gun on his index finger, “That’s probably what matters to him, too.”

_What I want to say._

(“ _Join Inarizaki. Work with us.”)_

_No. What I wished to communicate then was –_

“ _Devise a proposal later, Atsumu. Watch out.”_

“’S not a _proposal_.”

But he zeroes in on a target who strolls by, and squeaks as he sees Atsumu a second late. Blood spurts from his forehead as he collapses to the ground. Shirabu provides further instructions on how to proceed. It’s a relief that Itachiyama, as Sakusa has indicated, is not a yakuza organization trained for combat. If this had been any other eastern family, especially Nekoma, the impenetrable, or Fukurodani, there was no way it would’ve been this facile.

_“Wait.”_

Pause.

They’re at a crossway, the path splitting into two branches. There was a presence – a horde of men, but it was dead quiet. Suna slides over to the wall and raises his gun, and so does Atsumu. _A sudden spike in security. They know we’re here. They wouldn’t be on the defensive if they called for reinforcements or Kumicho Kurosu. Because they are, it means there’s something restraining them…_ the drugs. They discovered Nekoma in the basement. _Aha, they’re afraid that Nekoma might’ve disclosed info about the drugs first._ Atsumu tightens his vice grip around his gun. It’s warm, the heat spreading over his skin. _If they know I’m here, they’ll kill Omi._

He steadies his breathing. _Focus, Atsumu._

He trades glances with Suna. ‘ _At three,’_ Suna mouths, and Atsumu flickers towards the enemy, honing his senses.

_‘One.’_

_‘Two.’_

_‘Three.’_

On beat, Suna and Atsumu’s backs ram into each other as they fire. Atsumu can hear Suna ‘tsk’ at the number of enemies. He doesn’t even inhale as he shoots, shoots, shoots, one after another, blobs of gray tumbling to their feet, lifeless. Screams, bellows, and agonized cries buzz in his uncovered eardrum, and Atsumu grimaces. The hotness of the gun is sweltering, scalding. A bullet cuts past his cheek. “Jesus,” he rumbles, maintaining his balance as he abused his trigger relentlessly.

The skirmish wraps up in three minutes, with Suna and Atsumu panting heavily, sweating buckets. Suna’s back is soaked. “Sunarin,” Atsumu turns around, “shit, they got ya.”

“My leg, yeah.” Suna bites into his lip as he tears off his sleeve and treats the injury by binding it with the ripped cloth. Then suddenly, Suna stiffens as he squints at something beyond Atsumu, and, “ _Atsumu_ –“ Suna knocks him aside, and from the periphery of Atsumu’s vision, there’s a lackey with a revolver, ready to –

_BANG!_

“ _Sunarin_!” He hollers, and dreads for the scene to unfold – Suna crumpling to the ground like those men, rivulets of crimson streaming from his wound and painting the floor red. He waits, waits, waits.

But it doesn’t happen.

 _“Atsumu? Suna-san? Suna-san!”_ Shirabu’s shouts thunder into Atsumu’s head. Suna is blinking, unharmed. He jitters to life and repositions his earpiece.

“I’m fine.”

 _Then who,_ Atsumu’s eyes dart over to where the lackey was; the lackey is sprawled on the floor, bleeding out from his abdomen. The pit-patter of loafers resound throughout the structure. The moonlight from the windows which illuminates their surroundings strike the individual trudging towards them. Pale green – pale green hair.

“Are you both alright?”

 _Oh,_ Atsumu doesn’t even have to guess, “Iizuna-san?”

“Hello, hello.” Iizuna greets them lightheartedly, “And Suna-kun. Oh, you’re hurt. Well, how about you accompany me? I have to take care of the ones on the fifth floor.” He snaps to Atsumu knowingly, “Kiyo is over there, the third room from the back. The password is 1107. He doesn’t have a weapon, but there’s that Swiss army knife he hides in his sock. I eliminated the guards for you, you’re welcome.”

“Uh –“

“We’ll have to chat later. The sun will rise in an hour.” One glance at his wristwatch, “Go to the Kumicho’s office once you have Kiyo. We’ll resume this conversation then. Suna-kun, follow me.”

Suna ties a knot around his makeshift bandage and swivels to Atsumu. “No fucking, Atsumu.”

“Yer the _last_ person I wanna hear that from.”

He runs past the first, then second room aligning the passageway. _There it is._ The third room. There are corpses on both sides – the guards, Atsumu presumes. It’s a metal door without hinges or a knob or handle, only a door lock with buttons glowing in neon blue bolted to the outer layer. _1107,_ Atsumu reiterates mentally, his thumb hovering over the buttons.

(“ _Just tell him what you want to say.”)_

Atsumu smiles.

One, one, zero, seven.

The sheet of metal slides upward.

In the center of the windowless room, consumed in an eerie, almost suffocating, opaque blackness, at the very tip of Atsumu’s shadow which looms over the surface, is Sakusa Kiyoomi, staring at Atsumu with his unwavering, enrapturing obsidian irises gleaming in the dark. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, oddly at ease.

Like he knew Atsumu was going to come for him.

(“ _Join Inarizaki. Work with us.”)_

No.

“Omi,” He stalks up to Sakusa. Sakusa doesn’t reply – just stares. Stares. He kneels in front of him on one knee, until he’s at level with Sakusa. “I want ya.”

He extends his hand towards the man.

( _“Since ya can hold my hand now, don’t let yerself drown when I come to save ya.”_ )

Sakusa gazes at the outstretched palm.

( _“Have you found somewhere to run away to?”_ )

His lip curls under his mask.

“Have me, then.” Sakusa’s expression is taunting, almost guileful, as his fingers clasp between Atsumu’s, an unspoken, ‘ _if you can,’_ hanging in the air. Atsumu’s mouth waters. He wants this man, right now, right here. Their hands held, Atsumu leans in. Neither of them close their eyes or break the intensity between them. It’s only them – the two of them – in this room, in this building, in this city.

“I’m debatin’ between crushin’ yer balls for shootin’ my side and kissin’ ya.” Sakusa blinks at that. “Which one do ya prefer?”

“Neither.” Atsumu guffaws – _he doesn’t wanna take off his mask._ He laughs a little more internally, because _shit, something is terribly wrong if I thought that was cute of him._

Well, Miya Atsumu has never been content with ‘average.’

“Too bad,” he lunges forward and closes the space between them, his lips on Sakusa’s mask, brushing against the bulge of the other’s mouth underneath. There’s something unbearably tantalizing about it – the material of the mask dampening with the hot, moist air, the nearly inaudible, guttural sound that tickles Atsumu, something between a throaty gasp and a grunt, as Sakusa’s lips part slightly – _ah, fuck._ “I swear,” Atsumu grumbles through gritted teeth, “it’s yer fault if I develop some weird ass kinks.”

Sakusa cocks his head, “Like what?”

“I dunno, I might get horny from yer friggin’ hand sanitizer.”

The other laughs. Atsumu likes it. “Maybe later.”

“I haven’t forgiven ya for puncturin’ my side yet.”

“Puncture is a strong term,” Sakusa pulls out his Swiss knife from his shoe and rises. “But, well. I’ll make it up to you.”

“With your body?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

 _“You know,”_ Atsumu jumps as Shirabu’s disgruntled voice booms from his earpiece, “ _I’ve been listening. Please have some grace and quit your flirting.”_

Sakusa frowns at him, quizzical, “Ah, yeah, Kenjirou,” _‘’s Kenjirou-kun,’_ Atsumu whispers, and Sakusa hums. “Sorry, sorry. I think we’ll be okay, Omi-kun knows the directions to the Kumicho’s office. Thanks.”

“ _Alright then. Have fun.”_

The crackling ceases and Atsumu removes the earpiece. “There should’ve been quite a crowd guarding this room,” Sakusa tugs at his gloves. “How did you get here?”

“What? Thought ya heard everythin’ goin’ on outside.”

“This room is soundproof.”

“Wait,” Atsumu skims the area again – it’s basically empty, desolate, no lights, nothing. “Ya were in a lightless soundproof room for how long?”

Sakusa shrugs, “Maybe sixteen hours. It’s not much.”

Sixteen hours with absolutely no external stimuli – that would’ve been enough to drive Atsumu crazy, more effective than physical torture. “Jesus. Well, Iizuna-san came to the rescue.” Sakusa’s brows draw together, bewildered. “Ya didn’t know?”

“He never told me.”

 _What?_ “… Huh. He said to meet ‘im at the Kumicho’s office, though.” _To ensure confidentiality? Or along similar lines as Kita-san?_ Atsumu tosses his gun in his hand, and then notices, “Shit, I’m out of bullets.” _Must’ve been the last batch when I was fighting with Sunarin._ “Well, I’ll manage.”

Sakusa leads them to a shortcut instead of the stairwell. “There’s an emergency elevator which stops at every other floor – the Kumicho’s office is on the fifth.” It’s then that his phone dings. It’s a text from Kuroo, confirming that they have acquired the drugs and that they’ll be regressing to Nekoma in Aran’s car, who has arrived to pick them up. _Almost there. We’re almost there._ “This is it.” The Kumicho’s study does not have a lock attached to the door. Sakusa swings it open but doesn’t enter. Iizuna isn’t there.

_Something’s fishy._

From this angle, he can only see the classic oakwood desk of the Kumicho, lonesome without its owner. He can’t sense anyone, but there are waves of chills permeating his body, scalp to spine to toe. _I don’t have an alternative,_ he inches inside, the tip of his dress shoes crawling from the ceramic tiles, onto the tatami carpet.

_Something’s wrong. Something –_

It happens in an instant. A shadow lashes out towards Atsumu from the corner, Atsumu chokes as talons claw at his collar, he loses control over his feet, and then a cold, silver blade rests over his Adam’s apple. Atsumu struggles and wheezes, but, “Ah, stay still. A millimeter, and your arteries will be severed.” He’s facing the oakwood desk – a person behind him. His heart pounds as Atsumu swallows. “Sakusa, don’t even think of stabbing me with that weapon of yours, or else this kid’s life is lost.”

Seconds pass, and Sakusa appears in front of Atsumu. There’s emotion akin to pure wrath radiating from Sakusa; Atsumu hasn’t witnessed anything like it. “Kumicho.”

“Sakusa, Sakusa.” Atsumu’s stomach churns, the guilt and fury from when Shirabu presented Itachiyama’s inventory page to him rekindling. “I suppose you young ones haven’t seen this kind of movement. There are trends for our world too, with katanas and traditional yakuza culture now obsolete particles of the past. You couldn’t sense me, isn’t that right? What a shame. Not that any of this would’ve been necessary had you killed him when I ordered you to, Sakusa.”

“It’s over.” Sakusa snarls tersely, “There’s nothing left.”

“Nothing left?” Atsumu is rendered useless with the blade on his neck. _Think. Think, think._ “I can always rebuild a foundation. I poured my life into Itachiyama. And _you_ , mere _fifty thousand,_ dare believe you are capable of ruining my sixty years?”

_Mere fifty thousand._

A broad picture of Sakusa’s life, from childhood to now, flashes by in Atsumu. This man threatening him with this dumbass outdated katana was the root of Sakusa’s lifelong predicament – the man who prevented Sakusa from being human.

For once, Atsumu feels like he can commit murder in peace.

“Wake up, uncle.”

Atsumu can’t turn around, but the minutest transition of rage to surprise in Sakusa’s expression is all he needs.

It’s Iizuna.

Although not visible in Atsumu’s perspective, Iizuna’s gun was aiming for the back of Akihiko’s head. “Tsukasa.” Akihiko says without moving. The grasp on his katana falters. “What are you doing?”

“I admired and respected you.” Iizuna goes on, unruffled. “You were my hero, uncle. I want to thank you for that.” Atsumu can hear the Kumicho gulp, anxious. “But I must do what I believe is just.”

“Tsu –“

Blood spills over Atsumu’s shoulder, promptly following the telltale echo of a gunshot. The unsheathed katana clatters to the tatami carpet, along with its wielder. Atsumu rotates and Iizuna is there, who is wearing a smile of disdain, pleasure, and, “Iizuna-san,” Sakusa says, “What are you,” but Iizuna’s revolver does not descend. The barrel is centered at Atsumu’s forehead.

“Tonight, Itachiyama falls.” Iizuna states impassively. “Wakagashira, Iizuna Tsukasa, plotted against the Kumicho, blinded by greed, with the purpose of reaping all profit from Itachiyama’s illicit drug business. Nekoma’s Kuroo Tetsurou, Kai Nobuyuki, Yaku Morisuke, and Inarizaki’s Miya Atsumu and Suna Rintarou were not here.” Atsumu blinks, his brain whirring. “I disabled the surveillance system. There will be no security camera footage both within Itachiyama’s headquarters and Itachiyama territory to verify your presence. Iizuna Tsukasa and a select number of Itachiyama members rebelled against the Kumicho, but the brawl was a draw – and Iizuna Tsukasa shot his own Kumicho.”

“Iizuna-san –“

“That’ll be the story the public will hear.” Iizuna hasn’t lowered his arm with the gun. “Run.”

_(“How will you excuse us from Kumicho Kurosu, Kita-san?”_

_“Well, if my estimations are accurate, it wouldn’t be necessary at all.” Kita answers in a roundabout manner. “You’ll see what I mean._ ”)

At that moment, Atsumu knows all too well, what Iizuna plans to do. “I,” he breathes in, shaking. “Kita-san had a message for ya.”

Iizuna flinches.

“He says he feels the same.”

Tsukasa’s pupils dilate. Then, “Ah,” his eyes glisten. “Is that so…” His smile reaches his ears. It’s sincere, genuine, and gentle. Atsumu feels like he’s caught a glimpse of the true Iizuna Tsukasa. “If it isn’t too troublesome, please tell him that,” Atsumu balls his fists. “I’ll be waiting for him.”

“ _Iizuna-san_ ,” Sakusa shouts. Anguish and disbelief colors his words, his tone, his volume. Atsumu can’t do anything.

Iizuna beams at his subordinate – his – friend. “You’re free, Kiyo.”

( _“You’ll find one. And when you do, I’ll be the one to set you free.”_ )

The smile does not vanish, even as Iizuna pulls the trigger, the gun compressed to his temple.

Iizuna shoots himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the hopeful souls out there - yes, Iizuna is dead. 
> 
> Kita's chapter is next.


	16. Kita Shinsuke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was the one I've been waiting to write since the beginning of this fic. I will quickly thank everyone for your patience and loving support - you guys are the reason I got this far. Thank you so much. 
> 
> If it isn't too much, please skim through chapter 9 - Crack again; only Kita's parts will do. You don't have to, of course, but I think refreshing your memory will help you immerse yourself in this chapter further. This chapter is extremely long and heavy, so I won't encourage you to read it in a rush, same as Sakusa's chapter.
> 
> \+ The only official illustration of Iizuna was one with all the captains, and his hair was colored pale green and his eyes were brown, so that's what I went off of. He might look different when he's actually animated, though, so please keep that in mind!

“Someone is always watching, Shin-chan.”

His maternal grandmother, Kita Yumie, habitually repeated the sentence to him like an adage. Yumie was not religious in any sense, but was spiritual; Shinsuke had often tagged along when she went to pray at the local temple, where the fox spirits resided.

His parents had divorced before he was even born. His father, Toriumi Gen, had apparently been a standard Japanese salaryman. He met his mother, Kita Hisako through a university colleague. They dated for three years and married but had signed the papers five months into Hisako’s pregnancy. Despite the rather baffling story of their separation, nobody among the Kita’s seemed to blame Gen for his decision. Or at least, Shinsuke did not recall his mother nor grandmother badmouthing his father even once, who never showed up at their doorstep.

While he is no longer able to recall much about his mother, there is one image of her engraved onto his heart. He was chomping off the tip of an impeccably triangular watermelon slice, his chubby legs dangling off the mahogany porch, watermelon seeds stuck to his chin. His mother might have not been the stereotypical beauty, but she always had her silver locks in a high ponytail, her skin slightly tan, and there was something carefree and cherubic about how she comported herself. She giggled at her son as she dabbed at his chin with a tissue.

Then, she threw her arms into the sky and said, “He’s watchin’ ya, Shinsuke.”

Shinsuke looked at the sapphire blue sky. For some reason, he knew that his mother was talking about his father. _Pa’s not in the sky, though,_ was what he thought, chewing on the juicy watermelon.

He was six or six and a half – when he was violently awakened by the thunderous ringing of his grandmother’s ancient telephone. “Mn,” he wiggled into his blankets, wishing Yumie would answer it soon, but she didn’t. “Granny?” _Oh,_ it was the night where the senior citizens of the neighborhood conducted their monthly assemblies. Shinsuke rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn before jogging to the living room, where the telephone was. He had to drag his grandmother’s plastic vegetable box with him because he was too short. “Hello?”

“ _Is this the Kita residence?”_

 _Residence, what does that mean,_ but he was a Kita anyway, so he replied, “I think so.”

“ _This is Tokyo Central Hospital, and we are calling you to…”_

He didn’t quite understand what the lady meant, but his mother’s name, ‘Kita Hisako,’ resonated within him. An hour later, his grandmother grabbed his wrist, and they were at the hospital. It reeked of the medicine and ointment that his mother would apply on his cuts and scratches when he tripped. Six months later, he was back in the identical waiting room after receiving the call, which sounded overly practiced.

Kita Hisako had died in a terror incident, where a mentally unstable teenager from an abusive and impoverished family had stabbed four civilian passengers on the subway. His mother was one of the four victims. When the police asked the culprit about their motive, the student responded matter-of-factly: “ _Just because_.”

Kita Yumie, who couldn’t withstand the immense dolor and despondence which possessed her after her daughter’s death, followed Hisako’s path as her health deteriorated rapidly.

Shinsuke did not cry at his mother’s nor his grandmother’s funeral.

There was an enigmatic surrealness about everything – the environment, the particular heaviness of the air, and the aroma of the incense as it burned in the petite black pot in front of the portrait of his grandmother.

A part of him waited for Yumie to clasp his shoulders with her thin, wrinkled fingers and mumble, “ _Someone is always watching, Shin-chan_.” She didn’t, but he felt like she would.

It was a robust middle-aged man with a dragon’s tail poking out from the collar of his dress shirt who approached him. He had tousled hair, but it was silver, just like his. “”M Kita Suehiro.” Suehiro was his mother’s younger brother. Suehiro did not address Hisako as his sister, but as ‘that woman.’ When Shinsuke commented on this, Suehiro grumbled, “Ruined her life and married a wimp. Told her that he’d dash for it when he found out. A fuckin’ coward.”

This was something that Shinsuke eventually uncovered, but the Kita’s were a family which had served the Izanagi-kai of west Tokyo for decades – a branch family of Inarizaki. His mother had cut ties with them in college and married Gen, but her husband had fled when she confessed her heritage after the pregnancy test came out as positive. But he didn’t know then, so he nodded and left it at that.

Although Izanagi was located in the west, Suehiro’s flat was in central Tokyo. “You’ll have to transfer to a new elementary school.” Shinsuke accepted his fate without complaints. It wasn’t like he had any friends in his class at school; he was the typical studious but unnaturally mature kid whose peers did not feel comfortable bullying nor befriending, and he was fine with that.

In second grade, he became the peculiar transfer student in class 2-B.

_“He doesn’t have parents…”_

_“I heard his father was hella rich, though…”_

_“His dad had this tattoo…”_

As usual, he plugged his ears and skimmed through his textbook in preparation for a pop quiz, ignoring the hushed gossip of his classmates.

Suehiro was hardly home, but the fridge was stocked with food – occasionally yogurt, Gari Gari-san ice cream (pear-flavored), and Shinsuke’s favorite, instant tofu hamburgers. His uncle also slapped a post-it to the dining table with some cash, and the note read, ‘ _For whatever.’ He has awful penmanship,_ but those brusque notes brought a smile to his face. Although Suehiro never interacted with Shinsuke more than thirty minutes each night, the boy could infer that he resembled his sister – altruistic and friendly, though perhaps a little awkward.

“Sue,” Kita called him, sometimes thoughtlessly, sometimes to offer him a spoonful of ice cream. Suehiro would grunt and ruffle his hair, as if on autopilot. These days developed into Shinsuke’s daily routine, a fresh pattern.

In fourth grade, he was assigned to a new deskmate.

The deskmate was Iizuna Tsukasa.

The boy was absent on the first day of class, so Shinsuke listened to the teachers’ lectures without a partner that Monday. Shinsuke didn’t care; he had shared less than ten sentences with his deskmates over the past two years, and they all consisted of greetings, farewells, and ‘Shinsuke-kun, what did you get on question eight?’

That was why on Tuesday, Shinsuke did not anticipate his partner to be in the classroom before anyone else, even before Shinsuke, who was always the earliest.

Iizuna Tsukasa was on the desk barefoot, his chest puffed, legs spread, kind of like one of those army solider figurines in the toy vending machines by Seven Eleven. All the windows were flung open, and cherry blossom petals were scattered over the floor. While Shinsuke thought it was pretty, he also simultaneously deadpanned, _no, who’s going to clean this mess?_

Iizuna snapped to Shinsuke at that moment. The latter recoiled, startled and confounded. Iizuna literally sprung into the air, and then proceeded to stride towards him. _What,_ Kita backtracked, blinking furiously, but Iizuna cornered him to the wall, and he was trapped.

Iizuna stared at him.

Stared.

 _Stared_.

And then,

“Wow,” _You’re too close,_ “you know, under this, this specific angle, your eyes shine rainbow!”

_Rainbow._

_Really._

“My eyes are brown.”

Iizuna pouted. “I _know,_ but there’s this, hm, now it’s gone. I swear I saw a rainbow.”

“Why didja open the windows?”

“Huh? Oh, well, it’s windy outside – it’s great! Doesn’t it smell like flowers?”

“’S not helpful when the sensei gets mad at ya.”

Iizuna considered that. “True. Hey, where’s the broom?”

 _A delusional idiot with a sense of responsibility._ That was Kita Shinsuke’s initial verdict of Iizuna Tsukasa.

The boy was elated when he was informed that they were partners – “hey, let me look at your eyes!” “No.” “Please?” “No.” “Please with a cherry on top?” “No.” – and he observed Shinsuke whenever he was allowed to do so. He wasn’t rambunctious or too lively, per se, but he was capricious. He’d be folding a paper airplane one second but was able to solve a relatively difficult math question on the blackboard when the teacher reprimanded him for slacking off in class. He was an idiot but not dumb, and he talked a lot but not much about himself. Sometimes, he’d smile at the sakura trees by the soccer fields. The chalky green cowlicks sprouting from his bedhead complemented the pink flowers.

One day, during recess, Iizuna slammed his desk and beamed at Shinsuke. His face screamed ‘eureka.’ “Shin!” The other classmates blinked at them, perplexed, but Iizuna was not deterred. “From now on, you’re Shin.”

Shinsuke, however, was unfazed. “Was that what ya were scribbling in yer notebook during earth science?”

“You don’t like it? I have thirty more –“

He sighed. “Shin is fine.”

“You can give me one, too.”

Unwrapping his sandwich, Shinsuke replied, “Iizuna will do.”

“Sure, then.”

The thing about Iizuna was that he never described Shinsuke as boring. It confused him; none of his peers were entertained with him, mostly because he never tried, but also because he generally did not know how make others cackle with endless jokes. Iizuna, on the contrary, was not the class clown, but he was fairly popular. In fact, the only time Iizuna conversed with Shinsuke was when they were in the classroom, next to each other.

Well, there were also the rather disconcerting occasions where Iizuna would stare into his eyes for two minutes, but that was not an everyday thing.

“Sue,” Shinsuke uncapped a bottle of milk for breakfast. On Sundays, Suehiro was at home.

“Hm?”

“Are there rainbows in my eyes?”

Suehiro’s beer splattered over the table. Shinsuke winced, disgusted. “Sorry,” apologized Suehiro, “why, someone told ya that?”

 _Someone,_ the milk sloshed in his mouth. Iizuna – what was he? A friend? An acquaintance? “… My deskmate.”

“Mm. Yer deskmate needs to visit an optometrist.”

Shinsuke took that as a fat ‘no.’ He didn’t bother to bring this up to Iizuna, because with how intently the latter scrutinized him, Shinsuke was convinced that there had to be something, even if it wasn’t a rainbow.

Once again, the seasons transitioned into summer, autumn, winter, and fourth grade was over. There were no tearful goodbyes, as most friends promised to meet over winter break. Iizuna did not make such promises, and Shinsuke was settled with that. They weren’t exactly friends, anyway.

In fifth grade, new homerooms were announced. Iizuna’s name was categorized under 5-C and Shinsuke was in 5-A. Consequently, he anticipated a more tranquil year compared to the last; Iizuna was an oddity. The chances that his deskmate for fifth grade would be as chaotic as Iizuna were low. With that in mind, Shinsuke entered the classroom.

There, perched on the desk with his backpack slung over his shoulder, was Iizuna.

“Hey, Shin.”

Shinsuke squinted at the homeroom placard – 5-A.

“I’m aware this is 5-A, geez. I have something for you.” Held in Iizuna’s grip was a cherry blossom branch, petite flowers blooming from it.

Instead of a ‘thank you,’ all Shinsuke was concerned about was, “Ya shouldn’t break tree branches.”

Usually, people responded with a sheepish, ‘yeah, but…’ and a dejected excuse. Shinsuke didn’t know what they were expecting; he merely stated the truth. Iizuna, though, “Yeah, I regretted it afterward, so I said sorry to the tree. Really! I bowed at it and apologized, and this grandpa glared at me weirdly. I think I’ll attempt origami next time – maybe artificial flowers. I only have the real one today.”

Shinsuke blinked. He received the branch, dazed. “… Why sakura?”

“Hm? They remind me of you.”

“They’re pink.”

“Yeah,” Iizuna scratched his head. “You get a little pink too.”

He scowled. “I don’t.”

“You do,” Iizuna leaped towards him, and peered at Shinsuke. “When I do this.”

He would’ve said something back, but there was no way of ascertaining that claim; it wasn’t like he looked at himself in the mirror. Iizuna ran out of 5-A after a couple seconds, and the cherry blossom branch was still in Shinsuke’s hand. He brought the branch back home, and it laid on his bedside drawer for a week before the flowers began to wilt. _Maybe it would’ve lasted longer if I put it in a jar of water,_ thought Shinsuke as he discarded the branch in the bin, but he didn’t test his hypothesis.

Iizuna Tsukasa was a human conundrum.

Despite his classroom being on the other side of the campus, Iizuna barged into 5-A every recess and lunch without failure. Shinsuke deemed it as inefficient, because it was a ten-minute trip back and forth, and recess was fifteen minutes. But Iizuna came by Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. Pretty much everyone in 5-A knew him as ‘Kita’s best friend.’

He would’ve asked, ‘don’t you have other friends?’, if he didn’t already see Iizuna play with his classmates. And yet, Iizuna was here, with him.

“Iizuna,” Shinsuke mumbled one lunch, as he neatly folded the paper wrapper of his yakisoba bread. “Are we friends?”

Iizuna turned to him upon heeding the question. “If you want us to be.”

He pondered over that. “What do friends do?”

“Everything we do now, I guess.”

 _Huh._ If all the conditions were unchanged, then was there a reason to reject Iizuna as his friend? “Friends, then.”

Just like that, they became friends.

There was nothing special about being friends, like Iizuna said. If he had to note some alterations, it would be that Iizuna biked to Shinsuke’s house every morning to go to school together. It’s not like they discussed particularly interesting topics, or any at all. Shinsuke did not play videogames or sports, and Iizuna knew that. Typically, Iizuna bumbled on and on about random things, like the shape of clouds, his pet cicadas, so on and so forth. Iizuna never asked him anything, never breached Shinsuke’s boundaries, and he was happy with the relationship they had.

So, he didn’t know what drove him to tell Iizuna about Suehiro.

It was after school, and they were sitting on the pasture by the riverside. Iizuna was slurping his vanilla smoothie with a straw. Neither of them had spoken since they left the school building, and it wasn’t like he felt pressured to talk. But he started talking.

“My uncle’s a yakuza.”

Iizuna stopped slurping.

“I live with ‘im.” He didn’t go as far as to explain the details about his mother and grandmother.

(A part of him waited for Yumie to clasp his shoulders with her thin, wrinkled fingers and mumble, “ _Someone is always watching, Shin-chan_.)

He was unsure how Iizuna would react, but ‘excited’ was not his bet.

Iizuna was excited.

“My uncle is a yakuza too!”

Shinsuke was surprised, to say the least, but Iizuna began to relate the legendary tales of his uncle. “… he defeated an entire clan in east Tokyo in less than twelve hours, isn’t that epic? Oh, oh, he uses a katana too, an actual katana with a sheath! Dang, I wonder if it has a name? Something cool, like Wado Ichimonji- oh, you don’t watch One Piece, so you don’t get the reference. Well, that doesn’t matter.”

While Kita liked Suehiro, he understood that his occupation was not commonly respected or praised by society. There were nights when Suehiro returned with blood dotting his clothes, and Shinsuke pretended to not notice them. The yakuza gangs portrayed in films were always the antagonists. So, it was quite refreshing to see a passionate fan of one. “I want to be strong like my uncle someday.”

“How strong is that?”

“Mm…” Iizuna thinned his lips pensively. “Strong enough to protect people I care about?”

Shinsuke snorted. “How cliché.”

Iizuna grinned, “It’s a quote from an anime.”

“Thought so.”

The determination in Iizuna’s expression, though, was raw and caused something to stir in Shinsuke. _He’ll do it,_ he thought, _he’ll be able to do it._ It was odd. Shinsuke had never been so certain about anything in his life.

They both acquired their first cellphones in sixth grade. When they saved each other’s numbers, Shinsuke hesitated, and then typed, ‘ _Tsukasa._ ’ Tsukasa did not make a huge deal out of it, but did smile.

His life swerved with another phone call that year, October.

The telephone rang when he was asleep. Instantaneously, his gut wrenched. It was like that night. That night when he received a call from the hospital about Hisako’s passing.

This time, it’s not the hospital.

“ _This the brat? Ah, yeah. Aniki- no, your uncle is dead. We collected his body – the funeral will be this weekend. Thought you should know.”_

He stood there frozen, the device bouncing up and down with the wire as it slipped from his grasp. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t feel. There was Suehiro’s post-it along with the two thousand-yen bills on the kitchen counter. He was crumbling. He was falling. There was a floor beneath, but he was flailing in an abyss, dark and constricting and alone, alone –

“ _Shinsuke!”_

He was thrust out of the torturous sensation as someone yelled his name. Pounding – they were pounding on the door.

“ _Shinsuke, you’re there, aren’t you? I’m here!”_

Iizuna.

There was his cellphone beside him, the screen shattered. The distorted kanji print of Tsukasa’s name flashed on it. Before he could open the door, the hinges gave in and the door smashed into the wall. Panting in sweatpants and a T-shirt at the doorstep was Tsukasa. “Shin,” he murmured, and wrapped his arms around him. “God, I thought you were dying.”

His brain was fuzzy. “… Why?”

“ _Why_? You contact me at freaking three in the morning and when I answer you just keep crying my name, and when I asked what happened you just kept crying and then you suddenly hung up and I,” Tsukasa choked on his own breath, but did not release him. “… I thought you were gonna die. God. That was scary. That was the scariest thing that ever happened to me.”

 _Oh._ He didn’t know how to reply.

“Shin,” whispered Tsukasa, “are you okay?”

_Are you okay?_

He was seven when he lost his family. He was now twelve, with Suehiro gone. Somewhere, he had been clinging to the string of hope that his mother would return home with a triangular slice of watermelon, that his grandmother would teach him about the spirits, and that even if all of that took years, decades, Suehiro would be with him.

Now, he had nobody.

“No,” he croaked. Hot streams of tears cascaded down his cheeks, as he sobbed into Tsukasa’s embrace. Tsukasa didn’t assure him that it was going to be fine. He didn’t say anything at all. He was just there, beginning to end, drawing circles on Shinsuke’s back. Then, he looked into his eyes, like he often did.

“I’ll be with you.”

At Suehiro’s funeral, he encountered Yamashita Reimei, Inarizaki’s Kumicho.

Suehiro had apparently been a high-ranking member at Izanagi, and well-known enough for the Kumicho of the main family to attend the funeral ceremony. It was none of Shinsuke’s business, though. He only wished that Suehiro had passed away in peace.

It was during supper when everything went south.

Although he hadn’t witnessed what specifically occurred, in the center of the commotion was Yamashita Reimei aiming a gun at a man who appeared to be a lackey. The lackey was yelping as he crawled on the carpet, clearly terrified. If it were any other day, Shinsuke wouldn’t have cared. The yakuza had their laws, and he was not involved in their world, not directly.

It was Suehiro’s funeral, however.

“Please stop.”

Yamashita – no, not only Yamashita, but every single person in the hall gawked at him. He was between the lackey and Yamashita’s gun. _It could kill me,_ but that was not the point. It was Suehiro’s funeral.

The Kumicho quirked his brow at him. “And you are?”

“Kita Shinsuke, sir.”

“Do you know who I am?” Yamashita’s words oozed with an egotistical kind of self-assuredness.

“If yer so great and almighty that I should know who ya are,” Shinsuke articulated each syllable, “I believe that ya should behave as such.”

Yamashita leered at him. “Kita, eh. Suehiro’s beloved nephew and Hisako’s son, I see.” The man regarded him roguishly. “Come to Inarizaki.”

And since in reality, he was an orphaned twelve-year-old, Kita obeyed that command. When he told Iizuna, the boy simply mulled, “Hey, that’s the main family!” The Kumicho did not fuss over which middle school he chose, so Shinsuke attended the middle school he had planned to go to since sixth grade. Iizuna was there with him, like he said he would be.

Kitagawa middle school was where he met Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime.

In summary, Kita and Oikawa did not get along.

But the spirits had poor taste and put all four of them in one homeroom, one group.

“You’re boring.”

Perhaps it was because he hadn’t heard that insult for years after hanging out with Iizuna, or just the evident derisiveness on Oikawa’s face, but Kita snapped a little. He was not the type to explode in anger, though, so he selected his words after much contemplation. “Ya have an abominable hairstyle.”

Apparently insults related to his physical appearance were what riled Oikawa the most, because he got an instant response: “Wow, _fuck you_ , my hair is flawless!” Iwaizumi Hajime, on the other hand, was more compatible with Kita, as he complimented him for his jabs. Iizuna was the mediator, bringing the doves of reconciliation back to them.

It was a more disordered, messy dynamic than Kita preferred, but the four of them stuck together. Oikawa was constantly bantering with either Kita or Iwaizumi, although he had a losing streak with his childhood friend. Oikawa was whinier around Iwaizumi, and though the latter would bark at the boy, he relented in the end. Kita had once inquired why, and Iwaizumi said, “It’s annoying when he cries.”

He gradually recognized that Oikawa was not just an irritating presence, though. Oikawa was extremely observant and spoke with flair; Kita felt chills every now and then, when Oikawa’s chocolate orbs glinted, like a predator hunting its prey. Iwaizumi didn’t seem affected, but perhaps it was because they had known each other since they were kids.

“By the way,” Oikawa chirped, “Why do you that?”

Kita and Iizuna blinked at him.

“You know, that weird ogling thing,” Oikawa gestured from Iizuna to Kita, “Where Kasa stares into Kicchan’s eyes.”

“Don’t call me Kicchan.”

“Hmph.”

Kita didn’t answer Oikawa’s query and left it for Iizuna. _The rainbows again,_ he predicted, and scrawled an ‘x = 7’ on his notebook.

“… It’s a secret.”

_Eh?_

“ _Eeeeeehhh,_ ” Oikawa moaned, “What, that’s not fair! Iwa-chan, tell them that’s not fair!”

“Your answer for number nineteen is wrong.”

“ _Meanie_.”

When Oikawa and Iwaizumi went to the restroom during break, Kita asked, “Why’s it a secret?”

“Well, if I mentioned the rainbow, I felt like Oikawa would start doing the same thing,” Iizuna smirked, “because he won’t be satisfied until he sees it himself. But you won’t like that, wouldn’t you?”

He nodded along with that. Iizuna was right, Oikawa would definitely do that, and he wasn’t comfortable with the idea. “I see. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

At Inarizaki, more kids around his age were spotted at headquarters. There weren’t many, maybe one or two, tops. Kita only knew one, Ojiro Aran, who was nicknamed the “street rat.” “The Kumicho’s hobby is to fetch lost kids from the streets,” his superior said, and although Kita doubted that that was the whole reason, he didn’t pry. He was trained how to shoot a gun, but as a student, participating in missions weren’t mandatory for him. “’Cause you’re a bright kid, Kita. Inarizaki doesn’t have a strategist, or anyone of the like.” A strategist – he didn’t think he was suited for that, but well.

His three years of middle school were without noteworthy disputes, not including his regular week-long stalemates with Oikawa. It wasn’t that they apologized to each other, but Iwaizumi and Iizuna cooperated in dragging them out for weekend excursions. In his opinion, middle school was when Kita had the privilege to experience what ‘most kids his age’ did, such as going to amusement parks and the local swimming pool, as well as the annual summer festivals.

Then, winter break happened.

“They requested for reinforcements in the east.” The wakagashira then was Kurosu Norimune. “Ojiro, Kita. The Kumicho commanded that ya two go.”

“Us?” Ojiro exclaimed, “But we’re –“

“Lackeys of the lackeys. Gotcha.” Kurosu had a cigarette between his lips, and smoke slithered out, dividing into narrow trails due to his teeth. “They aren’t a branch we gotta tend to, or so he claims. Reinforcements for, ya know. For the sake of it.”

“Who are we against?”

“Seijoh.”

“Seijoh.” Ojiro reiterated, as if this was some gigantic comedy skit. “Ya gotta be kiddin’. They’re one of the four eastern families.”

“Technically, yeah. ‘S fine, they’re not serious either. They don’t give a crap about some branch family lurking in their territory. We’ll probably settle with somethin’ tomorrow. Means ya won’t die, kiddos.”

Seijoh. Kita was aware of the overall organization of Tokyo’s yakuza hierarchy. The three western families, and the four eastern families, with a few but not as significant neutral independents. “Even if it’s just a scrabble for show,” grunted Ojiro as they rushed to the so-called battleground, “don’t ya barely know how to aim?”

He did not have a knack for shooting or fighting, really. He did practice because he felt obliged to do so, as someone that was affiliated with Inarizaki. Inarizaki was his home, whether he liked it or not. Additionally, he had a premonition that he’d have to be involved in this field in the future. Whether that was right, he wasn’t sure. His grandmother said someone was always watching, and the underworld was jaded with lots of gray areas and questionable moral compasses. Kita never had much freedom, though – he was born into a family which served the yakuza, and it was ultimately his origin which he relied on for his survival.

Justice, morals, ethics – what were those, anyway?

 _To do the right thing,_ how could you do that, when you belonged in a supposedly ‘wrong’ world?

( _“I want to be strong like my uncle someday.”_

_“How strong is that?”_

_“Mm… strong enough to protect people I care about?”_ )

“Hey, we’re here. I’m gonna check out the north wing, ya go wherever.”

It was an establishment which functioned as an unofficial place to dispose broken cars and motorcycles. Tires were rolling in the dust, and it stank of rusted metal and sizzled rubber. There was a body by a destructed sedan; Kita grimaced at the sight.

“Hey, you!”

From his four o’ clock, someone roared – and he instinctively moved, lifting his gun.

“Kill him!”

There were two shadows. One was shorter, the other broader. Kita assumed the broad one was a member from Inarizaki’s branch family. The former was the one that rendered him speechless, as they limped towards him. That fluff of chocolate brown, the blood-stained but rounded face – it was Oikawa Tooru.

_Seijoh._

Oikawa was from Seijoh.

He pressed the trigger.

The man pursuing Oikawa collapsed on the concrete. Dead.

Oikawa was clutching his forearm, blood dripping from the hem of his saturated sleeve. He glared at Kita. “… You’re crazy, Shinsuke.”

“Nobody will know as long as ya keep yer mouth shut.”

“The consequences for attacking a brother is –“

“Tooru.” Oikawa groaned at him. “If ya have the leisure to prattle on, run.”

“… I’m not going to thank you.”

“Ya don’t hafta.”

The correct thing. Murder wasn’t it, Kita knew. There was no way one human reserved the right to kill another. There was no way anyone could take a life ‘just because.’ But if he had to kill to protect, to defend, then was that justified? There didn’t seem to be a crystal, definite solution. The fact, though, was that he had killed a comrade for Oikawa.

To Kita Shinsuke then, that was the right thing to do.

He and Oikawa didn’t talk about that incident at school. They didn’t talk about it even as they applied to the same high school in town, along with Iizuna and Iwaizumi. Nonetheless, something about their group dynamic was now disparate, as if they were all avoiding the elephant in the room. Kita had an irrational hunch that Iizuna and Iwaizumi were aware of the events that night, though they weren’t there.

His hunch was confirmed when Iwaizumi abruptly pulled him aside on the last day of their third year, during graduation at the gym. It wasn’t out of the blue; Oikawa and Iizuna had raced off to the convenience store to contest for the last milk bread in the bakery corner. “Thanks.” Iwaizumi mumbled, as he fiddled with the carnation brooch the school had distributed. When Kita blinked at him, bemused, he went on, “He’s never going to. And I guess that’s alright, because it wasn’t like he begged you to save him. But,” frankly, out of the three, Kita had interacted with Iwaizumi the least. That was why Iwaizumi’s tender smile had astounded him – even to Kita, who did not have a firm grasp over romantic affection, could see the fondness in his friend’s attitude. “He’s important to me.”

It was an, ‘I love him.’

Kita understood.

_Love._

As the concept lingered in his mind, Iizuna returned with Oikawa, shouting his name. “Shin! Hey, Shin!”

Iizuna hurled an object at him – it was a tofu hamburger. “What about yer milk bread?”

The boy laughed, “Well, you like that more, Shin.”

_(“I’ll be with you.”)_

He squeezed the pack of tofu hamburger.

Meeting Miya Atsumu was a sheer coincidence.

“My little brother’s gonna die if I don’t get ‘im somethin’ to eat, and he’s not dyin’ under my watch, not in the next seventy years.”

Of course, there was a certain quality about Atsumu that captivated him. _He’s someone that draws people to him,_ Kita realized. But his fierceness, the tenacious obstinacy of the boy reminded him of Iizuna from the evening at the riverside – that pure desire to achieve, with no ulterior motive.

(“ _… when interrogated, the fourteen-year-old culprit responded, “Just because,” shocking the pedestrians and reporters at the scene…”)_

He couldn’t pinpoint one concise reason as to why he took in the Miya twins. It could’ve been because he was moved by Atsumu’s resolve, because Atsumu held a semblance to his childhood friend, or because Kita felt compelled to do ‘the right thing.’ Nevertheless, it was undeniable that he saw an overlap of both the misguided teenager who stabbed his mother and Iizuna who vowed to protect his loved ones, in Atsumu. _If he has the potential to become both,_ Kita decided, he might as well be the latter.

Initially, there was a pang of pity. Anyone would’ve empathized with him, had they witnessed Osamu’s bony figure under the newspaper sheets. Kita contacted the ambulance, told Atsumu to guard his brother, and went to Yamashita.

“You’re not a hero, Kita,” remarked the Kumicho, “I was hoping you would’ve learned your lesson over the years.” He wasn’t a hero. Indeed, he was not. That route was never available to him.

“People can still offer a hand to others, even if they aren’t heroes.”

Iizuna was not a hero. He was a boy who strived to rise to the apex of this rotten industry. Logically, that made him the rotten of the rotten – and yet, that same boy was the one who embraced Shinsuke when he was convinced that he had lost everything. He was the boy who proclaimed to have seen a rainbow in his eyes. He longed to protect, not to destroy, not to kill.

If such a boy was rotten, then perhaps being rotten wasn’t so bad, after all.

“Well, you’ll be offering all your fingers to me the day those brats are trouble.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kita Shinsuke never wanted to be a hero.

( _“From now on, you’re Shin.”_ )

He had someone he aspired to be like, that was all.

As the Miya twins were not registered as Inarizaki members, Kita was their caretaker and had to pay for their living expenses. It was a challenge, even with the savings Suehiro had endowed him. He relinquished his study hours at home and partook in more missions with Ojiro, who labeled Kita as a pushover. Kita didn’t mind, though it was arduous labor to adjust his schedule, juggling academics, the twins, and his career.

“Atsumu, Osamu,” he removed his middle school textbooks from the shelf. The three of them lived together in Kita’s cramped single room in Inarizaki’s basement. It was too crowded for three growing teenagers, but neither Atsumu nor Osamu expressed any sort of disgruntlement or displeasure about their poor living conditions. Kita was an expert cook, but he had a limited repertoire and time, and was grateful that Osamu volunteered to assist him in the kitchen. Atsumu did the laundry and vacuumed the floor instead. “Come on, let’s study.”

“Bleh,” Atsumu sighed but crawled to the foldable table. “Kita-san, I can barely recite the Pita theorem ya taught us yesterday.”

“Pythagoras.”

“Yeah, that French dude.”

“Greek.”

“ _Agh.”_

“’S fine, Kita-san, I remember.” Osamu snorted and picked up his pencil.

Whatever his original reasons were, it mattered less and less over time. As an only child who never had siblings, life with the Miya twins permitted Kita to experience what it would’ve been like. His skin tingled with a foreign sensation when Atsumu said, “Yer the best, Kita-san!” It was exalting. To be someone’s best, to be shoved onto a pedestal he didn’t quite deserve, was unimaginably glorifying and rewarding. Something else sprouted in his heart then, and he comprehended what Iizuna meant when he proclaimed that his dream was to protect.

“He’s a little like ya,” Kita told Iizuna during the five-minute interim between classes.

“Oh, the twins?”

“The older one. Atsumu.”

Iizuna chuckled. “Really, how so?”

“Mm,” Kita didn’t know how to encapsulate his thoughts, so he answered, “he’s reckless.”

“Hey, I’m not reckless!”

“Ya are.”

“Hmm,” Iizuna sniffed, and then leaned in to stare at his eyes. Kita was so used to it that it wasn’t even perceived as awkward between them, although some of their friends often glanced in their direction warily. “I also met a kid who was kind of like you. Quiet, intelligent, and aloof. He was cute.”

Kita cringed. “’M not cute.”

Iizuna burst into laughter. Then, he caressed the side of Kita’s face, his thumb brushing his eyelashes. Kita’s pulse fluttered. “Alright, Shin.” That look – Kita remembered that look. The painfully familiar tenderness, the gentle shimmer of his lopsided smile –

( _It was an, ‘I love him.’_ )

For the first time, Kita stared into Tsukasa’s eyes.

They were the shade of exquisitely brown garnets.

A year later, Iizuna began to act differently. It was their second year of high school.

He couldn’t place a finger on how. He was still the Iizuna who biked to Inarizaki every morning to ride to school with Kita. He was still the Iizuna who coaxed him after an argument with Oikawa. He was still Iizuna, but he wasn’t. His smile did not hang to his ears, he talked less, and he no longer looked at Shinsuke in the eye.

“Tsukasa,” he was worried. Over their years of friendship, they had never fought. Of course, there were some aspects where Kita had adapted to for Iizuna, but it was mostly Iizuna who understood him. Their relationship had only come this far because that day, Iizuna had chosen to come by 5-A with his cherry blossom branch.

He was important to Shinsuke.

“Tsukasa, what happened?”

Iizuna was not a liar. It wasn’t that he couldn’t lie, it was just that he didn’t, at least not to Kita. So, when Iizuna didn’t reply and rested his head on Kita’s shoulder, he didn’t pester him further. Then, softly, Iizuna murmured:

“Shin. Can I kiss you?”

It was as if all oxygen had been pumped out of his lungs and was replaced with stones. Iizuna was not facing him, his head heavy on his left shoulder. _I need to see him._ An indescribable flood of apprehension inundated his senses. Iizuna was always the one that looked straight at him, and now, albeit being right beside him, it was as if he wasn’t there at all.

“Yeah.”

He agreed not because he wanted to kiss, but because he had to verify Iizuna’s presence. Iizuna’s gaze was hooded, as he blinked at Kita’s chest. “Close your eyes, Shin.”

_I don’t want to._

But he did.

Something wet and warm brushed his right eyelid. It was Iizuna’s lips. Kita felt a shiver course through his vessels. Then, those lips were on his, not forceful nor lecherous as the dramas portrayed, but careful, tentative, and mellow. It lasted less than five seconds, before Iizuna wordlessly laid his head against Kita’s chest. Kita combed Iizuna’s hair with his fingers. They didn’t talk about it.

It developed into a steady rhythm.

After lectures, in the locker room, in the men’s bathroom, and at the back of school – they kissed. Iizuna initiated them, kissing Kita’s right eyelid, and then his lips. It was like a religious ritual, but more intimate, yet suffocating. Sometimes, the rhythm escalated, and Kita believed they’d take a step farther, into a realm they wouldn’t be able to regress from. However, Iizuna stomped on the brakes and controlled himself, inhaling and exhaling as he snuggled into Kita’s arms.

He never, never stared into Kita’s eyes, ever again.

It hurt.

“You guys an item?” Oikawa meddled one afternoon, with his half-eaten milk bread. “Ijuuin-chan said she saw you two making out in the basketball court.”

Kita didn’t even know who Ijuuin was. “We’re not.”

Oikawa appeared to be legitimately stunned. “Wait, you’re just friends with _benefits_?”

“It’s none of yer business, Tooru.”

“No way,” he was blatantly ignored, “ _Tsukasa_? He would never, _what_ ,” he wasn’t certain as to why Oikawa seemed to be more conflicted over their arrangement than Kita was. “That’s impossible.”

“It is.”

“You’re too precious to him, for him to treat you like that.” Oikawa grumbled, “He’s been so obvious. Did you not notice?”

 _Too precious._ Kita reminisced how Iizuna’s palms hovered over his uniform buttons, his neck flushed as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. Iizuna had gritted his teeth and opted for another kiss instead, as he clasped onto the back of Kita’s head. _Too precious, for him to treat you like that._

_Did you not notice?_

( _It was an, ‘I love him.’)_

One Thursday, the last December of his third year, he imploded.

It was an unlucky Thursday. Atsumu was in a forlorn mood since morning after a squabble with Osamu, and the headquarters were tense as they readied for a brawl against some other family in the east. Iizuna had been avoiding him for two weeks, only stopping by Kita’s classroom to make out in the janitor’s closet. They didn’t exchange a greeting, didn’t even regard each other as Iizuna practiced his ritual and kissed Kita. Kita played along because he didn’t know what to do.

He was tired, now. He was tired of meeting the Kumicho’s standards, tired of school, tired of carrying the weight of being the guardian of two teens who were a year younger than him – _no_. No, he was tired of reaching out to Iizuna, clinging to a person who was slipping from his grasp. It had been two years, and it was two years too late when Kita saw that Iizuna was not Iizuna Tsukasa anymore – he was fragmented, broken. He was hurting. They were both hurting.

Shinsuke was desperate. Iizuna’s promise resonated within – the promise that he’d be with him. It wasn’t about Iizuna staying, it was about Kita not being able to let him go. He had already been stripped of Hisako, Yumie, and Suehiro. _Then you can let me have him,_ he argued to no one in particular. The spirits, maybe.

So, as Iizuna kissed him in the packed, grungy janitor’s closet, Kita choked out, “If I let ya fuck me, then will ya look at me then?”

He wasn’t in a healthy mindset. He was worn out, but he was also despairing. If he had ruminated on what to say a second longer, he wouldn’t have said it. But the milk was spilled.

Tsukasa did lift his chin.

His eyes were a muddy, miserable swamp of ashen brown.

 _Shit._ Kita knew. This was on him.

Iizuna released him. “Don’t say something like that again, Kita.” Was what he uttered as he exited.

_Kita._

Shinsuke slid to the grubby floor.

_I lost him._

They graduated without another proper conversation. Oikawa and Iwaizumi didn’t comment on their relationship, and Kita was glad. Kita would’ve taken everything back if he could, but it wasn’t possible. He was now ‘Kita’ to Iizuna. He had never been ‘Kita’ to Iizuna, not even when they first met. The worst part was that he couldn’t even tell where everything went downhill.

Like that, he became nineteen years old.

Long story short, he almost died.

Their casualties were not Osamu and Atsumu’s fault. They were lackeys, and it was their first official job. The twins had complied to the Kumicho’s orders. The foolishly lost lives were not on the twins. Yamashita had never approved of Kita, though, and that dislike was a justifiable reason to call him into his office for the oath Kita took when he brought in the brothers.

“Kita-san, ‘m sorry, I should’ve killed ‘em, I should’ve, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Atsumu growled as he tugged at Kita’s collar. “I’ll tell the geezer that it wasn’t ya, it’s not yer fault, how is this fuckin’ fair, ya weren’t even _there,_ Kita-san!”

“Atsumu? Atsumu,” he was calm. Atsumu was on the verge of breaking down. He was at least twenty centimeters taller than when he was fourteen. He had a scar over his brow, and he dyed his hair blonde to help Kita differentiate them, when it was actually unwarranted – Kita could tell them apart blinded. “I’ll come back.”

Losing his fingers was an adequate price, if that meant he could live for Atsumu and Osamu. He knew better than anyone how crucial, how comforting it was to simply have someone there, and how excruciating it was to be left alone.

He knew it better than anyone.

“Still playing hero, Kita?” Yamashita scoffed, and he wondered what had hardened this man. “This is how our world was, is, and will be.”

Kita deliberated over his rejoinder to that. Finally, he spoke, “… Atsumu didn’t know how to use a vacuum cleaner when he got here.” Yamashita furrowed his brows. “Osamu didn’t how to chop carrots. Atsumu does his own laundry now, and Osamu is in charge of our meals. Atsumu confuses the multiplication table even today, and Osamu forgets to brush his teeth sometimes. If I left Atsumu to rob the bank that day, Osamu would’ve starved to death and Atsumu would’ve grieved over his brother till his last breath.”

(“ _Yer the best, Kita-san!”)_

“Never in my life,” Kita enunciated, “will I regret taking them in.”

It was possible for people to learn, to change.

To trust.

To do the right thing, even in the wrong world.

Yamashita glowered at him and snapped his fingers at his aides. “Crush him. A week.”

Kita braced himself as one of his superiors struck his ribs with a baseball bat.

He did not sleep but sunk in and out of a cycle of unconsciousness and consciousness. A bucket of water was splashed over him every two hours or so, and he was fed canned food, and something stale he couldn’t taste – and then he puked it all out when someone bashed a foot into his gut. After an indefinite number of days and nights, he could feel death loom over him; his bones were broken, he was strangled so many times that he couldn’t even scream, and everything was pitch black.

_Tsukasa._

He wanted to meet Tsukasa, once more.

Just once.

Eventually, he succumbed to the darkness. Once in a while, something faint echoed from far away. Someone weeping, someone screeching, someone calling his name.

(“I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll _kill_ ‘im, let me fuckin’ go –“

“Atsumu, fucking stop, there’s nothin’ ya can do –“

“I won’t forgive ‘im if Kita-san dies, ya hear me?! I’ll make sure he suffers and _fuckin’_ –“)

And when he woke up, the universe was a blur of colors. He never felt so weak, so sleepy. A blob of pale green swirled in front of him. He mouthed, _Tsukasa,_ but no sound came from his throat – his vocal cords were wrecked.

“I can’t believe you.” It was Iizuna. He couldn’t see, but he didn’t have to. It was Iizuna. “You almost died, Shin.”

 _I guess I did,_ he mouthed again, and Iizuna’s fingers curled around his wrist. There must’ve been bruises because a numb jolt of pain prickled his skin.

“You were always the brave one.” Iizuna said, and Kita went, _how so?_ He wasn’t brave. He was none of that. “You were so strong. Even when everything around you was shit, you were shining. You were brilliant. You still are all those things.”

_That’s all you._

“I want to be like you, too.”

_You already are._

“Hey, Shin?”

_Hm?_

“I’ll be waiting for you at 5-A.” Iizuna’s warmth disappeared. “If you remember this, come for me. I’ll be there.”

_5-A._

When he was discharged, he received the news that Yamashita had died from a heart attack three weeks after his punishment was completed. “Good riddance,” Atsumu snorted aloud at the funeral, as he stood next to Kita. Osamu chortled and patted his twin on the back. Kita scolded them lightly but smiled anyway. The Kumicho was Kurosu, and Kita and Aran were promoted as the shateigashira and wakagashira, respectively.

_I’ll be waiting for you at 5-A._

Kita remembered.

It was April, the month of cherry blossoms.

At midnight, Kita jumped over the gates. The security guard was dozing off in the booth, the local weather forecast channel playing on his TV set. There were sakura petals on the soccer field. Nostalgia swept over him as he walked through his elementary school. The chairs were built for toddlers, and the desks only reached slightly past his knees.

He flicked at the placard.

5-A.

Iizuna was perched on the desk, just like that morning.

“Hey, Shin.”

Kita’s lips twitched as Iizuna grinned at him.

“I have something for you.” In his scarred hand was a cherry blossom branch.

Kita huffed. “Ya shouldn’t break tree branches.”

“Yeah, I regretted it afterward, so I said sorry to the tree.”

They exchanged a look and laughed.

The laughter melted into their eyes as they kissed. It wasn’t their slow, paced kisses. This was hotter, frenzied, sloppy, and careless. “Shin,” Tsukasa nipped at his bottom lip, then his earlobe, his fingertips gliding along the slope of Shinsuke’s jawline, his chin, and his collarbone, past his undershirt. “ _Shinsuke_.” The waft of cherry blossoms was sweet and intoxicating as Kita kissed him back, hooking his arm around Tsukasa’s neck and pressing them together, closer, closer, closer. Tsukasa groaned as they tilted, crashing into one of the desks. Shinsuke shielded Tsukasa’s ears and guided their lips back together, sucking on the soft, swollen skin.

_(It was an, ‘I love him.’)_

After twenty minutes, Iizuna was hugging Kita, Kita sitting on a desk, Iizuna on his feet. Iizuna’s warmth enveloped him. Kita breathed in; Iizuna’s musky scent soothed his beating heart.

“Shin?”

“Hm?”

“Hey, Shin. Someday, I’m going to die.” Kita stiffened. “When everything becomes insufferable, I’m going to die.” He peered up at Iizuna. “But before I do, I’ll embrace you like this one last time, tell you that I love you more than anyone else in this whole world, this whole fucking galaxy, that I love you so much that it drives me insane. I’ll tell you that, and then die.” Iizuna was smiling. His smile was not wide enough to reach his ears. “Wait for me until then – and bid me farewell for now.”

(“ _This is Tokyo Central Hospital, and we are calling you to…”)_

_(“This the brat? Ah, yeah. Aniki- no, your uncle is dead. We collected his body – the funeral will be this weekend. Thought you should know.”)_

_No. No. No._

“Don’t.” He was quavering. Something bubbled within. He identified it as fury. “Don’t ever come to see me again if yer gonna die afterward.”

Iizuna was silent. He stared into Kita’s eyes.

When Kita returned home, he put the branch in a jar of water.

The flowers still wilted after a week.

Seven years since then, Iizuna had never messaged or scheduled an appointment to meet Kita.

Iizuna was the type of person who did what they said they would. It was why Kita was relieved when Iizuna never contacted him; it meant he wasn’t dying soon. Life progressed without many obstacles, Oikawa was elected the shateigashira of Seijoh, Iwaizumi became his aide, and the four of them did not reunite. They weren’t supposed to unless they wanted to wreak havoc, because Iizuna and Kita were leaders of the west, and Oikawa and Hajime the east.

It’s a given, therefore, that Kita was bewildered by Oikawa’s abrupt request to visit him at Inarizaki. Kita notified Aran about it, and Oikawa was let through.

“So,” Kita served him a cup of matcha, “what is it? Ya haven’t been around the west since New Year’s.”

“Ah, yeah.” Oikawa was more composed than the Oikawa in his memories. It wasn’t surprising because people matured over time, but for some reason he thought Oikawa wouldn’t be applicable to that statute of nature. “Were you aware of the drug circles around Tokyo?”

Oikawa explained the connection between the spike in missing persons and the increased number of dealers in the city. “… Inarizaki, Nekoma, and Karasuno have had the most cases.”

“And? What do ya want from me?”

“We can use Miya Atsumu.”

Oikawa’s strategy was this: they will target the dealers and shoot them one by one. “Leave the location coordinates to me.” He said that Seijoh’s lackeys were designated positions around Tokyo to track them down. Although the enemy wouldn’t respond during the first month or two, they would gradually feel nervous and attempt to discover Atsumu’s identity. “Every upper echelon member of any organization noticed that the reason why Atsumu-kun seized victory against Kasai six years ago was because of his innate ability to inspire and dominate those around him. The enemy, then, will want to utilize this to their advantage.”

Basically, if their opponents were able to manipulate Atsumu and kill him, the consequences would be immeasurable. Exterminating Miya Atsumu was equivalent to waging war on half of west Tokyo. “We won’t know unless we try, of course.” If they succeeded, though, peace was restored in Tokyo. They couldn’t afford to involve the cops in yakuza matters, after all.

“Fair,” he acquiesced, “but Atsumu will not die.”

He could not reveal this to the Kumicho until they were able to deduce which organization was in control of this mess. He was collaborating with Seijoh’s shateigashira when the east and west were still at odds. Kita remembered his very first mission, when he shot the man from Inarizaki’s branch family instead of Oikawa. _In the end, I might not be a fox,_ he acknowledged.

While he speculated that there had to be another collaborator behind the curtains – because Seijoh did not have the resources to acquire these locations – he did not think much of it. Oikawa was a sophisticated human being, and even Kita couldn’t fathom his depth.

The problem arose when Itachiyama sent Sakusa Kiyoomi, not Iizuna.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was competent, and Kita knew that from experience. He had witnessed Sakusa take down fifteen men singlehandedly without even blinking. Itachiyama was not a combat-oriented family, and Sakusa was one of the scarce members who could fight. But Iizuna was the wakagashira of Itachiyama. He was Itachiyama’s second-in-command. Even if Sakusa was sent, why not have Iizuna accompany him?

When he brought this up to Aran, he retorted, “Oh, he’s on another task.”

_Really._

That evening, he dialed Daishou Suguru’s number.

“ _Kita, it’s been ages.”_

“Ah, yeah. I have a favor.”

“ _Oho.”_

“I need ya to look for a person. Itachiyama’s Iizuna Tsukasa.”

_“Hm, the wakagashira, eh? How about… two hundred thousand.”_

_Snakes._ “Done.”

“ _You’ll have it within twenty-four hours, mister.”_

Though expensive, Nohebi was the most distinguished organization not only in Tokyo but Japan when it came to accurate information collection. And to any yakuza family, what mattered most was manpower, information, and money.

[ _He was last seen in Tokyo, entering his apartment. His address is…_ ]

He turned off his phone. _It can’t be him,_ Kita assured himself, _it’s a coincidence._

But he could not neglect the enormous gap in the amount of data and evidence Atsumu and Sakusa gathered in comparison to other teams. That Nekoma bullet, too – had Atsumu reported his findings to the Kumicho, the second largest yakuza war could’ve unfolded between the east and west. The enemy was purposefully faking their evidence and was trying to trick Atsumu. Otherwise, nothing could explain the point that all the evidence indirectly pointed towards the east. It was flowing as Oikawa had foreseen – seamlessly. What was the precise percentage of that being possible? Oikawa was perceptive and prudent, but he was not a magician nor a fortune teller. For his predictions to be this exact was ridiculous.

“Daishou, one more thing.”

_“Man, you’re needy. What is it?”_

“Get me a copy of Itachiyama’s database. All of it.”

_“One million.”_

Kita sighed. “Deal.”

_“At your service, majesty.”_

On the bottom of the inventory page was Sakusa Kiyoomi’s name, sold to Itachiyama at fifty thousand.

( _“I also met a kid who was kind of like you. Quiet, intelligent, and aloof. He was cute.”_ )

Iizuna was fifteen when he met Sakusa. He obviously adored the boy; Kita could feel it from how Iizuna described him: ‘So, Kiyo crinkled his nose when I tried to feed him a potato chip,’ ‘Hey, hey, guess what Kiyo said the other day?’ ‘… and so Kiyo actually joked back, like, man, it was a Moment, with a capital ‘M.’…’

Iizuna was sixteen when he began to crumble.

Suddenly, the puzzle was whole as the pieces matched themselves in Kita’s brain. Iizuna frequently told Kita how he managed data transfer recording at Itachiyama as a lackey. Iizuna had found this page. He was able to guess and picture Sakusa’s past – why he always wore gloves and a mask. And those that had scarred and tormented Sakusa was Itachiyama, Iizuna’s dream.

( _“I want to be strong like my uncle someday.”_

_“How strong is that?”_

_“Mm… strong enough to protect people I care about?”_ )

Iizuna Akihiko, Tsukasa’s inspiration, had transformed into Tsukasa’s nightmare.

Kita doubled over the toilet as he heaved into the bowl. He remembered how Tsukasa slowly, painstakingly faded away in front of him in high school. Tsukasa was guilty. He was ashamed.

( _“You were so strong. Even when everything around you was shit, you were shining. You were brilliant. You still are all those things. I want to be like you, too.”_ )

He gasped as he vomited acid. Tsukasa was broken.

He wasn’t able to protect, not because he was incompetent, but because it was structured to be that way before he was even born. Tsukasa was strangling himself over something he couldn’t control.

And Shinsuke hadn’t been able to support him at all.

( _“If I let ya fuck me, then will ya look at me then?”_ )

_Fuck._

Tears slipped down and rippled as it fell into the water.

_Fuck._

He should’ve notified the Kumicho that it was Itachiyama. It was over as long as they detained Iizuna Akihiko.

However, then Tsukasa would also be condemned as an accomplice.

There was no doubt that Tsukasa was Oikawa’s collaborator. Tsukasa was faking Itachiyama’s evidence in order to make it transparent that the culprit was from the west _because_ the evidence screamed that the enemy was from the east. _How would he annihilate his own family, though,_ but then, Kita had an idea.

He despised the idea.

It was then that Iizuna texted him.

 _[Tsukasa: Can we meet?_ ]

 _(“Hey, Shin. Someday, I’m going to die.”_ )

Iizuna was waiting at the benches by a café with two cups of steaming hot coffee. “Let’s chat somewhere more secluded.” They moved over to the alley nearby.

After minutes of silence, Iizuna chuckled a little.

“I was ill on the first day of fourth grade.”

Kita sipped his coffee. It was bitter.

“I was super upset, thinking I blew my opportunity to make friends. You know how the first day of school seems huge when you’re a kid. So, on the second day, I decided that I’d be there before anyone else. I’ll say hi to everyone, learn their names, and leave the windows open because the cherry blossoms were pretty, and the breeze was cool – you get what I mean?” He didn’t, but he knew Tsukasa. “And then, I saw you.”

The intense staring – _how could I forget._

“I called it a rainbow then, but in truth, it was just the reflection of the cherry blossoms in your pupils.” Kita froze. “I think it was, well, let’s say I had a crush on you. Not that I realized it then. I didn’t know how to express my feelings or how to approach you. You were special, and I had to think of a resolution when we became fifth graders and were separated. So, I lied that I could see rainbows in your eyes.” Tsukasa snorted, and Kita blinked at him in disbelief. “I needed an excuse to look at you longer, was all. I couldn’t get enough of you. I liked you so much. Anyone else would’ve told me to piss off, really, but you didn’t; you were the kind of person who didn’t dismiss other people’s opinions or views as nonsense just because you thought differently. You believed that I saw rainbows in your eyes and let me admire them. That made me like you more.

“When Tooru asked about it in middle school, I told him it was a secret because I didn’t want him to share the privilege I had. I mean, I caught on later that he had Hajime, but you know. Middle schoolers.”

Tsukasa gazed at him wistfully. Then, he embraced him.

( _“Hey, Shin. Someday, I’m going to die. When everything becomes insufferable, I’m going to die. But before I do, I’ll embrace you like this one last time,_ )

“Shin,”

(… _tell you that I love you more than anyone else in this whole world, this whole fucking galaxy, that I love you so much that it drives me insane.”_ )

“I love you. I love you more than anyone else in the world, this whole fucking galaxy – I love you so much that it drives me insane.”

The remnants of Shinsuke’s coffee poured over the cement under their heels.

“I wanted to do more with you,” Tsukasa laughed wetly, “I wanted to wake up with you in my arms. I wanted to travel around with you, to Europe, to the States, to exotic islands. I wanted to spend New Year’s with you. I wanted to cry over sad romance films with you. I wanted to make love to you. I wanted to see the blooming of cherry blossoms with you. I wanted to do so much more.”

“Then do it,” Shinsuke whispered. “Do it. Do all of it. I’m here.”

There was that smile. That smile that took his breath away.

“I have to do what’s right, Shin.”

_The right thing._

( _“Never in my life, will I regret taking them in.”_ )

He was speechless.

Iizuna kissed his right eyelid, then his lips. It tasted like salt and coffee.

“I love you more than anything, anyone in the universe, Kita Shinsuke.”

Shinsuke stood there daydreaming for seconds, hours, maybe an eternity, even after Tsukasa’s departure. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He picked up.

It was Aran.

“ _Osamu was shot, Kita.”_

“I wouldn’t have seen ya differently. Even if ya were colludin’ with Oikawa this whole time, were betrayin’ Inarizaki, stabbin’ the Kumicho in the back, I wouldn’t have given a shit. Ya have reasons. Ya always did, and I respect that about ya. But what do I- no, what do any of us know of ya? I dunno why yer a yakuza, I dunno why ya chose us, _me_ , I dunno what ya think is right or wrong, all I _fuckin’_ know is that ya like to eat those inanely healthy tofu hamburger crap and, and I was with ya for ten years. _Ten,_ Kita-san, that’s almost half my life. I trust ya more than anyone, yer the person who knows me inside out best after Samu, so _why the fuck_ , why the fuck, do I have to hear those answers from someone else?”

He couldn’t say much following Atsumu’s tirade.

What _would_ he say? _I didn’t tell the Kumicho even though I know who our opponent is, because then the person I love would’ve been killed as well._ He had emphasized to both Atsumu and Osamu to do what was fair, what was just, because though they worked in an industry which was none of that, that was because the people involved were tainted by those ideals and environment. People had to change for the world to change.

And Kita was here, sacrificing the lives of countless women and his own subordinates, because he was afraid to lose one person.

It was pathetic.

He was Atsumu’s boss, Atsumu’s mentor, and something more to the boy ever since they became family more than ten years ago. He had to be the best for the twins.

In reality, Kita Shinsuke was only human, and a cowardly one.

“It can’t be ya,” he mumbled.

No, what he was implying was –

_Why does it have to be you?_

But Tsukasa had already provided his answer, and Tsukasa was an individual who kept his word.

Hours prior to their infiltration into Inarizaki, Atsumu knocked on his door.

Atsumu had figured him out. It was embarrassing and also amusing to see for himself how much Atsumu had matured. Kita was once a kid, too. He was a kid who believed that Yumie and Hisako would return someday. He was a kid who got thrilled over a post-it and yogurt in the fridge. The kid grew up and met a boy his age with breathtaking garnet eyes and a mesmerizing smile, learned how to trust and rely on other people, and fell in love with that boy who made a promise to stay with him for as long as they were alive.

Of course, kids made promises they didn’t even know they could keep. But that was the beautiful innocence of children.

Kita Shinsuke, however, wasn’t the child from those fragrant springs.

( _“I love you more than anything, anyone in the universe, Kita Shinsuke.”)_

_I guess we’re both idiots._

““Do ya mind passin’ on a message to Tsukasa tonight?” Atsumu nodded at him. “Tell ‘im that I feel the same.”

“He said that he’ll be waitin’ for ya.”

Kita caresses the framed portrait of Iizuna Tsukasa. It’s a lonely funeral, with just he and Atsumu, Sakusa, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi.

“I see.”

_You’ll have to wait for a pretty long time, then._

( _“Someone is always watching, Shin-chan.”_ )

_I’ll be there, Tsukasa._

_I promise._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SakuAtsu and KitaZuna are parallels in this story, in case you couldn't tell. Although there are numerous aspects of their relationship which can be contrasted, I think the most noteworthy one is that SakuAtsu's relationship begins in winter and transitions into spring, while KitaZuna's relationship begins in spring and ends in winter. 
> 
> I'd really like to hear your thoughts for this chapter, as I poured my heart and soul into it (I cried while writing)! The last chapter is next :)


	17. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE ARE HERE! THE LAST CHAPTER OF PART 1! 
> 
> First off, thank you SO much for everyone who stuck with this story this far. It was my absolute pleasure to write for you guys. Thank you to those of you that might read this story in the future as well. 
> 
> I will continue with the notes once this chapter is over - so enjoy for now! Please read the end notes though (if you're a reader who usually skips them), as there is information for part 2!

Snow piles on the tomb, over the engraving carved into the surface.

Oikawa Tooru crouches down and brushes the white layer away, tracing the inscription with his fingertips.

‘ _Iizuna Tsukasa.’_

Iwaizumi is beside him, an umbrella in his hand. Oikawa recounts their last conversation together – Iizuna, appearing resigned yet resolved at Seijoh’s gates, dumped a stack of papers and a scheme to him in July. Oikawa had agreed to cooperate not out of any sort of amity, comradery, but because there were benefits for himself. “ _But I don’t understand why you couldn’t just communicate this directly to Shinsuke. It’s a solid plan but there are numerous risk factors that we couldn’t be taking into account. Shinsuke is the most organized, most coordinated person amongst us. If he could assist us, then it would facilitate the progression of –“_

 _“It’s because of the final part of this,”_ Iizuna shrugged.

“ _The final part?”_ Oikawa flipped over to the last page in the portfolio. “ _It’s undecided for now, isn’t it? If we can have Nekoma take the blame somehow, then it could turn out for the best.”_

_“I’m not having anyone else be responsible for Itachiyama’s problems.”_

Oikawa blinked once, then several times rapidly as he processed Iizuna’s assertion. Iwaizumi was quiet but was clearly affected, too. “ _Tsukasa,”_ he began with much care and sensitivity, uncharacteristic for him, “ _you’re actually considering –“_

 _“Not considering.”_ Iizuna interjected, “ _I already made up my mind.”_

_“What about Shinsuke?”_

Neither Oikawa nor Iwaizumi knew what happened between Kita and Iizuna in high school. Iizuna had distanced himself from all three of them, not only Kita. When Oikawa had confronted Iizuna about it during one of their overlapping lectures, Iizuna simply said, ‘ _I can’t bear it. Talking to him.’_

Iizuna huffed emptily, “ _That’s why I didn’t want to discuss this with him.”_ His smile faltered. “ _I wouldn’t be able to do it if he begs me not to.”_

_“You love him, Tsukasa. You guys have been fucking married since middle school.”_

_“I probably love him more.”_

Oikawa let out an irate groan. “ _You can’t possibly believe that.”_ There was no way Shinsuke would’ve endured such extensive years of emotional turmoil if it weren’t for someone he loved as much as Iizuna.

“ _Yeah.”_ Iizuna admitted, _“But he won’t stop me.”_

_“Ugh, shut it.”_

_“Because you see, Tooru – at the end of the day, Shin and I will both choose to do the right thing.”_ Because that’s why they fell for each other. Oikawa knew.

“Hajime,” Oikawa rubs his reddened nose as he massages his knees while getting up. Iwaizumi doesn’t answer, but he looks at Oikawa. “If the apocalypse were to come,” Iwaizumi crinkles his nose. “Just listen. If the apocalypse were to come, and the only way to save myself was to sacrifice the entire human population or you, I would choose the entire human population.”

Iwaizumi’s face is impassive and solemn as always, but Oikawa notices how his thumb tightens around the handle of the umbrella.

“But if it was either you or me, then I would choose to spare myself.”

Oikawa Tooru is the antithesis of morality. He was molded like that, in a world where morals, good deeds, compassion, and everything of the like were worthless. Anything that couldn’t be converted into fame, power, and money was a scrap with no value.

Iwaizumi Hajime knows that better than anyone.

“Like hell I’d need to be saved by you,” grunts Iwaizumi. “You’re weak as fuck.”

Iwaizumi Hajime would probably die for Oikawa Tooru.

No – Iwaizumi Hajime would definitely die for Oikawa Tooru.

Both of them are aware of it.

Oikawa snorts at his aide and whispers, “Fuck me on my desk when we get back to headquarters.”

Iwaizumi loosens his tie. “Is that a command or a request?”

“Does it matter when you’re going to do it either way?”

_True._

As they turn on their heels, Oikawa tosses the ashes of Iizuna’s burnt portfolio towards his grave.

“Rest in peace, Tsukasa.”

###

Atsumu wakes up to the rustling of blankets.

The futon feels strange on his bare skin, warmer and softer than usual. He stifles a yawn and flutters his eyelids, and peers up to see Sakusa gazing at him.

_Oh, right._

_This isn’t my bed._

“Yer awake,” is a pretty stupid first liner, but it’s most likely morning and Atsumu is an airhead any morning of the year. There’s something ethereal about how the morning dawn shimmers against Sakusa – the contrast between light and dark. “Can I touch ya?”

Sakusa doesn’t nod but shuts his eyes. It’s a yes.

Atsumu cups Sakusa’s side profile, caressing his defined cheekbones and the healed cut hidden behind his right ear, something Atsumu discovered last night. Sakusa had told him that he got it when he was twelve, when the Kumicho was in a sullen mood. He was beaten for no particular reason, other than the fact that he functioned as a cheap sand bag. “ _I already forgot about it,”_ mumbled Sakusa, but Atsumu knew that he, at least, wouldn’t be able to. He didn’t want to.

“What’re ya thinkin’ about?”

They stumbled into Sakusa’s apartment after Iizuna shot himself a week ago. Seijoh barged into the scene in Kita’s car and collected Iizuna’s corpse. Inarizaki couldn’t, because Iizuna was labeled as a traitor along with the remainder of the demolished Itachiyama. Sakusa kneeled there for at least an hour, staring at the bloodied spot on the floor where Iizuna had collapsed. Atsumu contacted Kita about Iizuna’s death and that he wouldn’t be returning to headquarters. “ _I hafta,”_ he gulped and flicked at Sakusa. “ _I have something else to do.”_ Kita understood and didn’t pry.

Atsumu was the one who drove them to Sakusa’s apartment. Sakusa’s lips were pursed throughout the whole journey.

Around two hours later, after both of them used the shower, Sakusa, slumped on the couch, stretched out his palm towards Atsumu. Atsumu interpreted it as an invitation and laced their fingers together.

_“My mother sold me off to Itachiyama when I was seven.”_

In that low, detached voice, Sakusa laid out his life to Atsumu. There were no inflections in between, no dramatic pauses, only short breaks for breaths. Atsumu’s heart clenched as he listened to Sakusa. Sakusa’s anger seemed to have dissipated, or whatever emotion he had towards Itachiyama. Instinctively, Atsumu realized that it was because of Iizuna – Iizuna was someone who allowed Sakusa to view Itachiyama in a fresh light. That Iizuna was now dead, and through his death, Sakusa was liberated.

 _“Iizuna-san was,”_ Sakusa mumbled, “ _naïve. Untainted. It was hard to be convinced that we were living in the same reality. But it was conversely entertaining, to see someone so opposite of myself. I guess I,”_ Atsumu’s cheek scraped against the material of the couch as he rotated his face. There was a strained edge to Sakusa’s neutral expression. “ _He was…”_ he was biting on his lip.

He was trembling.

Atsumu reflected on Sakusa’s past – the death of his siblings, how Sakusa described their loss as insignificant, but that Sakusa wore the gloves from his brother, and that his favorite food, umeboshi, was a constant reminder of his sister. He experienced so much death as a child, more death than any average human being, the scythe of death tickling his Adam’s apple every day.

There must’ve been no space for grief to settle in.

Sakusa Kiyoomi was not taught how to grieve.

“ _Miya,”_ Sakusa called for him.

“ _Atsumu.”_

The other blinked.

“ _It’s Atsumu.”_ Sakusa’s frown softened.

“ _Atsumu.”_

_“Yeah?”_

_“Touch me.”_

It was as if someone tased him. Atsumu swallowed. “ _Ya sure?”_

Sakusa huffed. “ _You said you haven’t forgiven me for puncturing your side yet.”_ Quote-unquote ‘puncture,’ right. In all honesty, he had pretty much erased the event from his mind. “ _Do what you want.”_

The air which encased Sakusa when he murmured that sentence devastated Atsumu – not quite enough to break him, but enough to have him suppressing the urge to cry. It wasn’t the same as the bold ‘ _have me, then_ ,’ from a few hours ago. This was totally different. Sakusa was drowning, and he was about to drag Atsumu into the water with him, their hands clasped together.

“ _’kay,”_ he could guess what Sakusa implied by ‘ _do what you want_ ,’ and it hurt and even disgusted Atsumu. It wasn’t that Sakusa disgusted him, but the environment, the world Sakusa was raised in, how dehumanized he was, how that price of fifty thousand wasn’t a mere sticker plastered to his body but bone-shattering chains which had weighed down Sakusa for so long, that he himself was subconsciously degrading his worth till his very moment.

Atsumu inhaled and loomed over Sakusa. Their positions had gradually shifted, with Sakusa lying on the cushions and Atsumu hovering over him. Sakusa wasn’t looking at Atsumu, but somewhere else.

He slipped his fingers around Sakusa’s wrist. Then, he placed a light kiss on the smooth skin, his lips trailing down along the faint blue veins on Sakusa’s forearm. “ _Mi- Atsumu,”_ Sakusa shuddered at the touch. Atsumu planted a feathery kiss on the back of Sakusa’s hand.

“ _Omi, can I touch yer face?”_

Sakusa bristled. “ _… You don’t have to ask –“_

 _“Omi.”_ Atsumu supported himself by grasping onto the back pillows of the couch. He wasn’t touching Sakusa other than how their legs were tangled. “ _Can I touch yer face?”_

After what felt like a brief tug of war, Sakusa nodded curtly. Atsumu stroked the curvature of Sakusa’s angled jaw. Sakusa flinched. He lowered himself and brushed his lips against the corner of Sakusa’s mouth, his fingers running through the slightly damp curls of Sakusa’s hair, Sakusa’s warm breath heating his craned neck. “ _Can I kiss ya?_ ”

His partner tensed under him, “ _Atsumu, stop asking, just –“_

 _“I’m askin’ ‘cause ya deserve to be treated that way. Not just ya, anyone.”_ Atsumu drew circles on Sakusa’s temple with his other hand. “ _And I’m not just gonna watch ya treat yerself like somethin’ less than that.”_

Sakusa seemed to have realized what he had done, because a wave of emotion akin to shame pulsated through his onyx irises. Atsumu fondled the moles on his forehead. “ _I think I’ll be a little sad if ya do that again, Omi.”_

The other man lightly pushed on the back of Atsumu’s head and lifted his own to kiss Atsumu. Atsumu’s jaw dropped slightly, stunned. “ _I’m sorry.”_ He said, “ _I’ll try not to do it again.”_

Atsumu smiled. _“Yeah.”_

They kissed a couple more times after that, some longer, some shorter, some deeper, some lighter. Atsumu didn’t comment on the tears that welled in the corner of Sakusa’s eyes, as they trickled down to the cushions beneath, soaking the pillows. Perhaps it was Iizuna’s death, or something else, like Masaomi and Ume’s deaths he couldn’t mourn over all those years ago, or the countless months of emotional repression – but Atsumu knew Sakusa didn’t want him to ask about it yet, so he didn’t. _One at a time. One at a time._

As they lie alongside each other in Sakusa’s bed now, days since then, Sakusa hums.

“About how I don’t have anything in the fridge.”

“Damn,” Atsumu snickers, “that’s horrible, Omi.”

“I wasn’t expecting guests. Or a guest at all.”

“Ya have a permanent one now, so ya better do yer groceries.” Atsumu yawns, “I’d peck ya on the cheeks, but I have morning breath. Bleh, my mouth stinks.”

Sakusa snorts. “Don’t mention it.”

They brush their teeth in the bathroom, and Atsumu rests his head on Sakusa’s lap as he scrolls through the delivery app on his phone. He lands on the pancake brunch restaurant and orders his usual, as well as the umeboshi toppings for Sakusa. “I never had delivery food for breakfast.” Sakusa mulls at the pancakes in the paper bags, and Atsumu laughs.

“Well, get used to it, ‘cause I’m not goin’ in yer kitchen.”

“Yeah, please don’t.”

As soon as they finish breakfast, they get dressed and drive to Inarizaki. They had been lounging around Sakusa’s apartment for approximately three days or so, with Atsumu traveling back and forth between his apartment and Sakusa’s. Kita had advised Sakusa to wait until they were fully prepared, whatever that meant. “We can trust Kita-san,” Atsumu says nonetheless, and Sakusa nods.

“I know.” It stems from the stories he’s heard from Iizuna.

Osamu in a wheelchair and Suna greet them at the entrance of Inarizaki. “Samu, ya still can’t get outta that thing?”

“If I put a lot of effort into it I probably can,” Osamu shrugs, “but I don’t wanna.”

“Yer such a lazy ass.”

“I’m still smarter than ya, Tsumu.”

“Fuck you,” Atsumu spits back in his best imitation of a Tokyo accent, which has Sakusa smirking under his mask. His mask is black, but Atsumu can tell that much by now.

Akagi waves at he and Sakusa by the elevator. “Hey, Kita’s been waitin’.”

“What took ‘im a week, anyway?”

“Ya know Shinsuke,” Akagi chortles, “freakishly equipped for any situation, any unexpected turn of events. At least ya know whatever he does, he’s gonna win. Don’t be so worried, yeah?”

“’M not worried.”

“Ya wear yer emotions on yer sleeve, Atsumu, trust me.”

Atsumu glances at Sakusa, seeking for comfort. “I don’t, right?”

“You do.”

“Oh my _god_ , no. For real?”

Kita is standing by the benches outside of the Kumicho’s private study with his arms crossed. He straightens his posture as he spots Atsumu and Sakusa. “Atsumu,” and then he sends an acknowledging nod to Sakusa, who nods back. “Before we head in, I need to confirm somethin’. Sakusa-kun,” he was anticipating that Kita would have at least five stacks of papers to present to the Kumicho, but he has none. “I will be mentioning yer records on Itachiyama’s database to the Kumicho. Is that alright?”

“Ah, yes. It’s not a problem.”

“Good. Well, let’s go in.”

Kumicho Kurosu is sitting cross-legged on a traditional, thick Japanese winter futon, a folding screen made of bamboo with delicately painted foxes on the side of the room. “Ah, Shinsuke, Atsumu. Make yerself at home – ya too, Sakusa.”

Kita kneels politely out of respect for the Kumicho on the mat, and Atsumu and Sakusa stand behind the man. Whether Sakusa became a fox today depended on Kita.

“So… Itachiyama, yes?” Kurosu peruses the reports on his desk, which Atsumu assumes must’ve been submitted by Kita last week. “Iizuna Tsukasa’s rampage. The taboo drug distribution they’ve been doing without our authorization.”

“That’s the story.”

“Let’s hear the truth, now, Shinsuke.” The Kumicho removes his spectacles and wipes the lenses with his silk handkerchief. “We all know that’s the story for the public ears, like what we did with Kasai six years ago.”

Kasai. The cover was that Inarizaki had been the one to defeat them, when in fact it had been Atsumu and a few select Inarizaki upper echelon members, including Kita. Inarizaki wasn’t supposed to attack Kasai that night due to various reasons such as maintaining their reputation – had they caused a strife between families for a lackey like Osamu, they would’ve lost their trust with other families, and be perceived as irrational. It was fortunate that they had discovered evidence afterward which demonstrated that Kasai had been guilty of attacking branch families under Inarizaki’s control, validating their ambush.

“That is the truth.”

Atsumu blinks at Kita’s gallant lie. Kumicho Kurosu taps his middle finger on his desk. Kita goes on. “I’m here to appeal for Sakusa Kiyoomi’s admittance into Inarizaki, Kumicho.”

Kurosu’s humored grunt rumbles. “Yer bein’ funny, Shinsuke.” The Kumicho’s wristwatch glints rather hostilely under the lamps. “He was in Itachiyama. We can’t verify whether he was siding with Tsukasa or Akihiko, and either way he is subject to execution as well, if we adhere to our usual policies. He’s either a rebel or a traitor.”

“Sakusa was not a member of Itachiyama.” Kita counters steadily, “There should’ve been more reports along with the abridged version of the case as well as the details. A printed page of their inventory records.”

“Ah, yes. I didn’t skim through that one, yet.”

“Sakusa Kiyoomi should be on the bottom of the list.”

Kurosu scowls and quickly browses through the papers. “Hm.” He lands on Sakusa’s name, as well as his price. “And yer point is?”

“He was not accepted as an official member of Itachiyama. This makes him irrelevant to whether he was in Iizuna Tsukasa’s or Iizuna Akihiko’s faction. Yes, he was appointed to deceive Atsumu and delay our investigations, but he was also tasked with the mission to assassinate Atsumu, which he did not do.”

Kurusu snaps to Sakusa. “Is this true?”

“… Yes, sir.”

“Of course, as an individual formerly affiliated with Itachiyama, even as a… commodity,” Kita winces slightly at the term, “his testimony lacks credibility, and I’m aware of that. However, it is irrefutable that he will be an extremely valuable asset to Inarizaki.”

“I think my issue is whether I can trust ya, Shinsuke.” Kurusu responds, “Yer really tellin’ me to believe that fairytale? Iizuna Tsukasa, overcome with greed, betrayed his uncle and killed himself as he lost his men and failed to seize victory… ya can trick the other families, but not me. I _knew_ Tsukasa. He’s not the type.”

Kita is wordless for some seconds. Atsumu feels like breaking into cold sweat at the tension in the room.

“That’s why from hereon, I will be propositioning a compromise.”

The Kumicho stalls, and the rhythmic tapping ceases. “A compromise.” _Kita-san has gone mad,_ Atsumu pales – this was beyond venturesome. A shateigashira suggesting a compromise with their own boss? Had this been any of them, they would’ve lost a finger at the spot. “Are ya mental, Shinsuke?”

“Ya can’t afford to lose me now, Kumicho.” Kita doesn’t even bat an eyelash, unyielding. “I’m not the most competent ya have, and I’m definitely not someone you’d put forth in brawls. But ya bestowed me with the honor of bein’ Inarizaki’s shateigashira because I was fit for the job.” Kurusu rolls his tongue in his mouth; his cheek bulges. “If ya cut me off, then you’ll lose Atsumu, then Osamu, then Suna, as well as the lackeys under them.”

Atsumu gapes. _Who would actually be so audacious to say that aloud?_

Kita Shinsuke, apparently.

“I might not be a piece ya need on yer board, but they are. And to keep them around, ya need me, Kumicho.”

Kurusu flickers at Sakusa, Atsumu, and finally Kita. Then, he explodes into a fit of laughter, slapping his futon. “Hah, yes, indeed. Ya speak the truth.” Kurusu sneers at Kita. “A compromise… eh. Have a bomb join my pack or lose half my pack. Fine, then.” The Kumicho flaps his hand dismissively. “I’ll let ya off the hook today.”

Kita bows, “Thank you, Kumicho.”

“The day that lad harms Inarizaki is the day yer neck is sliced off.”

“Of course.”

Kurusu shakes his head. “Yer the foxiest of us all, Shinsuke.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As they exit the study, Atsumu continues to gawk at Kita, awed. “Wow, Kita-san.”

A sigh leaks from Kita as he flattens out the creases of his pants, where he was kneeling. “He’s yer partner now, Atsumu. Make sure he learns our rules and methods.”

“Ah, yessir. That’s a given.”

“Oh, right,” Kita halts and faces Sakusa. “Welcome to Inarizaki, Kiyoomi.”

Atsumu grins.

Sakusa hooks his finger into his mask, lowers it to his chin, and bows tersely to Kita. “Thank you, sir.”

The shateigashira passes on a crooked smile.

“Call me Kita-san.”

###

Sakusa admires the city from the top floor of Inarizaki. Atsumu excused himself to the restroom during their mini-tour around the headquarters, leaving Sakusa by the glass wall. Itachiyama’s now deserted main building can be seen from where he’s standing, a petite cube between other skyscrapers and houses.

“So, ya like it?”

He glances sideways. There is Miya Osamu on a wheelchair, alone.

“Oh, Rin’s dashed off to Seven Eleven for onigiri. It’s my soul food, ya see.” It seems to be a twin trait to answer questions unsolicited. “How are ya likin’ Inarizaki?”

“There’s nothing to like or dislike in particular.”

“Mm,” Osamu leans back. “Tsumu’s a pain in the ass ain’t he?”

“Quite.”

“But he grows on ya, right?”

“Yes.”

“He’s like that,” snickers the twin, “oh, also – if Rin smacks yer torso or somethin’ outta the blue, just ignore ‘im. Ya owe me that much, don’t ya?”

Sakusa pictures Suna. “Alright.”

“I wish ya luck with Tsumu.” Osamu grabs the wheels and shoves them forward. “I hope we get along, Sakusa.”

“… Likewise.”

( _“You’re free, Kiyo.”_ )

Sakusa steals a glimpse at his own reflection in the glass. _Free._

“Omi!” Atsumu is beaming, jogging towards him. He resembles one of those naughty teenagers in cartoons and high-teen movies, bulldozing through the school’s hallways and constantly being admonished by teachers. His tie is flung over his shoulder and furthermore, incorrectly done. Sakusa doesn’t bother hiding his amused snort. “What, somethin’ weird? I washed my hands, y’know.”

Sakusa readjusts Atsumu’s tie, “You have it tied wrong,” and does it for him. He slides the knot up to the collar once it’s complete. When he looks up at the blonde, he’s blushing pink. “… What?”

“Yer not playin’ _fair_ ,” whines Atsumu, “I never had someone redo my tie for me before.”

A ticklish, fluttering sensation vibrates within him. A gravelly chuckle bubbles from his throat, as he inhales Atsumu’s scent. The lemony balm of soap soothes him. “You’re cute.” An incomprehensible sound squeaks out of Atsumu as he flushes into darker shades of red.

“Shit, Omi.”

Sakusa squints at him.

“I think I’m kinda hard.”

 _He’s an idiot._ “You’re an idiot.”

“ _Omi, help.”_

“I’m not doing anything with you here.”

“Jesus, don’t make me _imagine_ ,” Atsumu freezes, “hey, ya said ‘here,’ didn’t ya?”

A shrug.

“Let’s go home,” Atsumu says grimly, “now.”

“I thought we had work.”

“Nobody gives a shit about work.”

As Atsumu marches ahead, Sakusa stops one last time and raises his chin to the cloudless sky. It isn’t snowing anymore.

_(“Have you found somewhere to run away to?”)_

The sun shines over Tokyo.

###

_Ah, ah._ He punches his cramped shoulders as he plops onto his chair. The man in the driver’s seat inserts the keys and heats the engine. “Good work.”

“Yeah.”

“It was pretty hardcore, huh?”

“Don’t even,” he’s exasperated by just reminding himself of this past month. “They were so freaking insistent, like bro, seriously? This is why I don’t like undercover missions.”

“Well, you’ll be emancipated from this too, once you receive an adequate mission to fake your death.”

“Just when I’m adapting to this gangster life, too.”

“You speak as if you like it.”

“I don’t hate it, really.”

The other guffaws. “Of course. It’s you, who are we talking about.”

The male is short in stature, his fluff of white hair similar to the plumage of a seagull. _Oh, right, right. I have to call him._ He scrolls through his contacts, clicks on a name, and puts the phone on speaker mode.

“ _Oh, Hoshiumi?”_

“It’s me. Sorry it took a while – that Aran guy was on my tail twenty- _five_ -seven, no joke. We’ve been released today. I could’ve messaged you or something but didn’t want to risk it. They have some connections with Nohebi, and it’s basically over if Nohebi gets to me.”

“ _No, no. I apologize for inconveniencing you; you and Hirugami were working undercover to inspect Kamomedai, after all. I’m sorry that I made you do extra work.”_

“Nah, it was catching two birds with one stone; I was elected for Kamomedai because I am skilled at what I do. Either way, I would’ve been at Inarizaki.”

_“Right – so, how was it?”_

“It’s not Inarizaki, for certain.” Hoshiumi wedges his phone between his shoulder and cheek, fumbling for his notepad. “So one of the seven families is out of the suspect list. Rumors have spread, yes? About Itachiyama and Iizuna Tsukasa.”

“ _Ah, yeah. Treason? It was something along those lines.”_

“Mhm. Well, it’s probably false, because Sakusa Kiyoomi – previously a member of Itachiyama, has joined Inarizaki. It indicates that the matters are more complex than what the public has been offered. But we don’t need to find out the details, I think, as those are yakuza stuff. The main point is that Inarizaki is not the culprit, and that there’s another organization besides Itachiyama involved, because the kidnappings haven’t stopped. According to Hirugami, three more women disappeared in Shiratorizawa yesterday.”

_“Mm.”_

Hoshiumi closes his notepad. “I recommend focusing on the east. You should look out for Oikawa Tooru; he’s dangerous.”

_“Of course. Thank you, Hoshiumi, you’re my savior.”_

“No problem,” crows cry from afar. Hoshiumi grins at the sound. “Detective Sawamura.”

**_To be continued._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, remember Hoshiumi from chapter 1? He was here throughout the entire story, and never mentioned for a reason. The last scene is basically the transition into part 2 of this series - in other words, part 1, 'And Foxes will Lie,' was a long ass prologue for part 2. Yep. 
> 
> The reason part 1 is titled 'And Foxes will Lie' is largely because of Kita's lie at the end, which is what brings Sakusa into Inarizaki, in case any of you were wondering (but there are other scenes where the lying element is important)! Part 2 is 'And Crows will Cry,' which, as many of you might've guessed from that final scene, concentrates on the eastern families: Fukurodani, Seijoh, Karasuno, and Nekoma. Of course, the western families will appear as well, but the main pairing will be DaiSuga, along with many others in the background like part 1 (and yes, SakuAtsu will be there as well). And you know what? The police force will be in it too. Yahoo for more characters (why do I do this to myself). 
> 
> Part 2 is also a crossover of sorts with Fugou Keiji: Balance Unlimited, but you don't need to watch that anime in order to understand the plot, as it will mainly be Haikyuu-focused. I will simply be borrowing their characters. 
> 
> Lastly, I just wanted to comment on SakuAtsu. I thought over whether I wanted to include an implicit sex scene between those two (I don't write explicit, sorry about that), but considering Sakusa's trauma and how much Atsumu cares for Sakusa, I had a feeling they wouldn't rush their relationship. As Atsumu says, they simply need to take it one step at a time. 
> 
> I will hopefully be back after organizing the plot for part 2 by the end of January/start of February. No promises, though. Until then, take care everyone, and happy new year!
> 
> M. A.


	18. Author's Note

I wasn't sure how many of you were actually planning to read part 2, and this fic still had subscribers, so I'm posting an author's note here for those who wouldn't be notified otherwise - part 2, 'And Crows will Cry,' for this series is up! I hope you enjoy it :D 

M.A.


End file.
